As we watch Twitter tumble under the leadership of its new CEO Elon Musk, it is interesting to hear pastors called CEOs as well. Who are our role models if senior pastors are called CEOs? If we treat churches like a corporation, are we looking critically at the ethical problems exhibited by CEOs and corporate culture? Read more

I was in third grade, nestled next to my family in some discount theater in Salem, Massachusetts. The seats had a sheen where greasy popcorn hands had been wiped on the burgundy upholstery. In the town where women were burned, crushed, and hung, I saw love being made in the back of a foggy model T aboard the Titanic. Or at least I saw as much as I could through my mother’s hand puritanically cast in front of my eyes. I believed in Rose and Jack’s story. So this past year when my husband asked, “Do you want to watch Mare of Easttown?” my initial disinterest in a murder mystery set in his beloved Pennsylvania faded with two words: Kate Winslet. These are the words I say to anything Kate related: “Yes, Yes, YES!” 

 

But at the end of HBO’s Mare of Eastown first episode, a teenage mother’s body lay barenaked and lifeless. The brutality juxtaposed against the beauty of the river and woods where she was found made me question if my love could, in the melodic voice of Celine Dion, go on.  

 

See I had just found out I was pregnant. With this little life growing inside of me, I didn’t know if I could follow the story of a young mother and her death and the story of another mother who lost her son to addiction and suicide.  Did I want to subject myself to this too? My Granny, one of the strongest women I know, refused to watch anything other than game shows and comedies. She said, “Life is too sad and too serious for anything else.” Sometimes I agree. As women our bodies and hearts are so often laid bare. 

 

I believe in the power of stories. I know there is something beautiful about our stories being told and seen in public places. The way they bring a sense of affirmation. “Yes, me too,” we say and sigh, relieved. But I also wrestle with the commodification and fetishising of women’s trauma. The more gruesome and edgy, the more views and likes, the better the ratings. Several years ago I went to see the play La Routa at Steppenwolf Theater in Chicago about the route women take to factories on the United States-Mexico border. Along this route, they disappear. They are sold, trafficked, tortured, and killed. I cried in the warm darkness of the theater sheltered from the midwest winter, surrounded by these women’s spirits. Afterward in the talk-back, I heard the actors wrestle with the question, “How do we not just tell these stories for entertainment but for transformation?”  

 

As a pastor I think about the women I have talked to who sit with the real lasting effects of trauma, of sexual assults, of incest, of parenting a child with substance use disorder, of child death. As the media sees dollar signs and ratings, I see these survivors getting up and showering (or sometimes not). I see them packing lunches for the kids. I see them going for walks and going to work so that they have medical insurance. I see them living courageously, brokenly, bravely in the face of fear they know too well. I see them living knowing how hard and cruel life can be and how it can all so suddenly change. 

 

In March I gave birth to our second daughter in less than two years. She will enter into this world where the powerful can bend and break and crush her as the women of Salem knew in 1693. How much has changed. How much has remained the same. 

 

There are museums that tell the stories of Bridget Bishop, Sarah Good, and Susannah Martin. These haunted houses with their flickering lights and eerie music tell of what these “witches” endured. While I remember visiting the museums, I must confess I had to look up these women’s names. They, in all their beautiful specificity, are lost to the larger story of abuse. We do not know what made them laugh. We don’t know if they got freckles across their noses while working in the summer garden. We do not know what they hoped for and who they loved. All we know of these and so many women is their pain. 

 

I want more than this for my girls. I want more than the commodification of women’s pain for our couple of hours of pleasure. And yet I sit with my bowl of popcorn and watch. It is complicated and imperfect, but I tell myself this: maybe we have to take away the puritanical, capitalist hands from our eyes that only let us see in part. These hands are only interested in telling tales for the quick rewards and instant gratification. 

 

Instead may we tell the long, slow, and beautiful stories of women’s lives and in doing so see our lives reflected in all their miraculous particularity. Yes, we will tell the stories of our lives in the love being made and the horrors that happen but also in the little, often unnoticed magical markers that make these and all women’s lives. For life is made not only by the big moments – the schooling and jobs, the babies being born and the loved ones we lose – but life is also made up of the faithful routines and minute details: the shower singing, the morning walks, the nights of lying awake as questions float through the mind, the apron always worn, the talking to herself as she cooks. 

 

Bridget’s, Sarah’s, and Susanna’s stories are threads in the larger tapestry of women’s stories. They offer an invitation to fully explore the stories of women now, to discover their richness, and to discover our own too.

 

Where do we start to look for these women? Everywhere. There are the unnamed and unknown women in sacred texts whose faithful lives inspire. There are women of history whose footsteps we follow and on whose shoulders we stand. There are the grannies, mothers, aunties, sisters, and friends, who we know in part but not as fully as we could if we took more time to ask and listen. 

 

So let’s take the time to listen to stories that call to be heard and told. Let’s tell our truths in turn. May we cultivate a spirit of curiosity and wondering so that we won’t be minimized and our beautiful complex selves simplified. These stories – the whole of them – can heal and transform us. 

It seems to me that the greatest lesson from God that we must strive to keep reminding ourselves of is that while we can’t do everything, we can do something.  That is our call as Christians and leaders of the church.   And even if that ‘something’ doesn’t feel like enough, it often is.  This is a lesson I am working hard to remember right now after a recent encounter that will likely live in my memory for the rest of my life.

Masouma and Hassain Ali (unrelated to one another, and with no connections in the United States) were being sponsored by our local Afghan Support Network, who have already sponsored and welcomed two large families from Afghanistan.  It was rather last minute as the nearby military base worked aggressively to move all refugees who arrived in August from Afghanistan out.  Affordable housing in our town is difficult to come by, so Masouma and Hassain Ali were going to be staying temporarily at an Airbnb across the street from my church until something permanent could be found.  There was going to be a delay between the two being picked up from the base and the Airbnb being ready, so an Open House was put together rather hastily at my church.  Congregants and community members were invited to stop by and say hello to our town’s newest neighbors.

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Beginning in 2012 and through 2013, while waiting for my first call, I worked for the missional outreach face of my seminary’s website. I edited a collection of essays from a class on church revitalization and wrote a few original pieces reflecting on my experiences as a Millennial who was also a practicing Christian. In one of the posts I wrote, which I called “The Original Fandom,” I drew a line connecting the people who call themselves Potterheads, Trekkies, or Bronies/Pegasisters with the people who call themselves Christians. This article of mine was the very first place that I began to think that maybe fandom had something to teach those who follow Christ about what it means to be shaped by a story, or a Word, in the Internet Age. Though the article itself hasn’t survived my seminary’s transition to a new website or my transition to a new computer, the act of writing that article set me on a course where I would be continually fascinated by the activity, practices, and commentary of fan culture. This, in turn, has inspired me as I question and experiment in ministry.

The impact of story fandom (think books/movies/RPGs/TV shows) on larger culture has been maturing on a parallel path to my own growth and maturity. In some ways it feels as if story fandom has been growing up with me.  I was four when The Little Mermaid released, five when Beauty and the Beast hit theaters, and so on. The Disney Renaissance was my childhood. Toy Story came out when I was nine. The first Harry Potter book came out in 1998 when I was 12, and Harry, the eponymous main character, had just turned 11. I spent my teenage years soaking in massive movies about Jedi, hobbits and elves, and pirates. I was 22 when Iron Man was released. Maybe it was only a matter of time before I and the members of my generational cohort (with our neighboring cohorts!) began to approach fandom as something more than child’s play. Maybe it was only a matter of time before we began to examine the casual and lively networking of fan cultures that was blossoming alongside our churches, which were struggling to adapt to new rhythms and realities of a culture in flux.

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The Rev. Kerri Clark shared the following message with her congregation and on her blog in the final days of 2020. We want to share her wisdom and encouragement.

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

As 2021 begins, we’re already being inundated with messages about new year’s resolutions, weight loss, and diet plans. Our holiday feasting is labeled as an indulgence, and even sinful, and we are made to feel guilty about, or at least apologetic for, the weight we carry or the state of our bodies in general. The reality, however, is most often not about wellness, but rather money. The diet and exercise industry is hugely profitable, taking advantage of our feelings of discontent and shame about our bodies.

So – here’s your annual reminder that you don’t need to change your body in order to be worthy of love. You are made in God’s image and called good and beloved just as you are. Your body doesn’t need to be able, or healthy, or a certain size to be worthy of love, compassion, and care. Your weight and health are not indications of your goodness, morality, or anything else.

The incarnation is God’s declaration that our bodies are good. We celebrate that Jesus was fully God and fully human. He was not a deity pretending to be human, wearing skin like an ill-fitting costume. Instead, he was born among us with a body like ours, that grew and moved and experienced both joy and pain.

We celebrate all the ways that Jesus’ ministry was embodied – all the meals he ate with his friends; food provided for hungry bellies, and encouragement for hungry hearts; the times he noticed and touched those whose bodies were broken or in pain; when he wept at the death of his friend; when his own body was lovingly anointed and prepared for burial. We give thanks for his resurrected body, which still bore the marks and scars of his life and death, and which promised that our bodies will be resurrected, too.

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I’m not praying for you.

“I am not praying for you,” poem copied in walnut ink.

I’m not praying for you.

I’m not praying for you.
As if your tears don’t carry the weight of your hurt,
and God is somewhere else
waiting to be paged by the righteous.
As if the mother alone in her room-
partner gone and babies asleep-
crashed into the mattress and eyes closed before she offers her thanks
is ungrateful.
As if the someone in the mass grave is any less loved
than the one with the power who put them there.

I am not praying for you.
As if my words are more connected, holier, or more well-received.
As if the right sentence- a seance of spirits or those who have “the gift”-
will unlock salvation.
Like those who have spent time in the book, in the books- wrote them.
Or the posture matters.
You will not find that heavier words
Sink in faster.

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More than five years ago, I came to a junction in my life. My husband and I had to make decisions about where to live, how to proceed on our career paths, and when to have children. I remember the pressure of asking myself really big questions. Who is God calling me to be? What is the best path for my current and future family? Where will we be happiest? It was intimidating to try to find a single good answer to these questions to ensure that I’d be

“Path to Craigton”

“Path to Craigton”

following God’s will for my next steps. I’d been taught in business leadership literature that you have to have a vision first so that everything else can line up with the vision. It left me thinking I had to get the big picture right if I were to be aligned with God in the details.

But not everything, and particularly not our spiritual lives, can be filtered through current leadership trends. While I was wrestling with discernment, I stumbled across twin terms from a 12th century monk named Ignatius of Loyola. Ignatius encouraged people to pay attention for instances of consolation and desolation in their days. Consolation refers to moments when you feel close to God, are growing in faith, and are able to give of yourself in joy. Desolation refers to moments that turn you in on yourself, when faith or courage shrink, and when joy is hard to come by. Consolations aren’t all obviously positive. Not getting a particular job could be a consolation if it increases the love in your life in the long run. Getting the job could be a desolation if it gets in the way of your capacity to share your deepest gifts. It’s not the outward content of the thing but the way we inwardly relate to it that reveals how God speaks through it.

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Standing in my living room surrounded by church members, I put my hand on a small group leader’s shoulder and anointed her with oil. I watched as tears welled up in her eyes. It was a moment I’ve thought about as I’ve reflected on my first year of ministry, one of the many meaningful experiences I’ve had. I am glad I have memories like these to think back on. Ministry is not easy. I have found ministry to be a mixed bag of frustration punctuated by moments of grace and growth. As I look back on the first year, I’ve learned many lessons, some easier than others. Below you’ll find six of the most important.

Sexism in the church is real. Practice creative problem solving.
There have been several times during my short time in ministry where I have come into contact with subtle (and not so subtle) forms of sexism. People have a tendency to comment on my weight, my hair, my clothes, and my way of doing things consistently. People treat me differently than they treat my husband, who is also a pastor. There are fewer women in the denominational structure who share my gender and invest in me. While this is frustrating, I realized that there are female leaders who have learned to navigate the system well. These women have turned their frustration into creative problem solving and the best ones have done it with a sense of humor. In my own way, I am learning how to recognize injustice and use my resources to circumvent roadblocks that keep me from being an effective minister. Some of the best leaders I know have developed much of their leadership arsenal while navigating spaces of great adversity.  Knowing this has helped me to cultivate gratitude in the midst of frustration.

Instead of trying to be successful, get to know the people.
I spent the first few months of my ministry trying to figure out what the “rules” of ministry were because I wanted to be a successful pastor. As a former high school teacher, I knew there had to be rules somewhere! What I found in the church instead of rules were complicated networks of people. It took some time for me to feel out the culture of my church, the people I’d be working with, and the neighborhood. In the process, I learned that ministry is more relational than rule-oriented. Once I learned this, the image I had of a successful pastor got a little bigger and there was more space for me to bring my whole self to the job. I also felt freer to be creative and use my skills to reach goals in my own way.

Lead out of who you are.
I have learned that I can only lead out of who I am. I have a gender, an age, a racial identity. All of these things have shaped my life experiences and made me into the person that I am. In my first year of ministry, it has been important to share who I am without trying to copy another person’s leadership style, even the women leaders I look up to. I have used my own story in sermons and small groups. For example, this year I shared a story about becoming aware of my own racism because it was an important part of my Christian walk. This led to a spirited discussion of race and its importance in our lives at a women’s retreat as other people uncovered their own hidden biases. Movement through my own codependency has led me to recognize and deal with the codependency in my congregants and has helped to improve the health of our church programs. In many ways my wounds are gifts to those around me. Sharing my experiences has created a space for people to share about their lives and struggles. I think this has been one of the most valuable aspects of my first year of ministry.

It’s important to be theologically aligned with your co-workers.
No one is going to agree with you 100%. People have not been formed by the same relationships, bible studies, and seminary that has formed me. My own Christian walk is unique. Through our hermeneutic and life experiences, each of us live out our faith differently. And while it is good and healthy to expect theological differences among co-workers, it is equally important to share an understanding of the work of Jesus and the church in the world with your co-workers, especially if you will be working under another pastor’s vision. For example, if you feel that your faith compels you to social action, and the people you work with or your congregation don’t see the value in your approach, it is a recipe for frustration. Get to know the church you would like to work for and the people you would like to work with and make sure that it is a mutual fit so that your ministry is life-giving to both you and your congregation.

Cultivating a non-anxious presence comes through processing your own anxieties.
As pastors, we are called to be with people in the sacred moments of their lives; in birth, sickness, change, and death. It is immensely helpful to be a non-anxious presence in the stressful moments of other’s lives. I have learned that I can only do this by processing my own anxiety. This year, I had a chance to do this as I sat across from two congregants to discuss changing a long-running church program. I could feel my desire to please them bubbling up inside me. This was at odds with my desire to bring attention to the parts of the program I felt were unhealthy. It was an uncomfortable place to be, but by allowing space for my feelings, I had the chance to see what happened when I listened to my anxiety rather than reacted to it. I learned that it’s okay to be in tight spots, and that sometimes being in them allows me to deal with my own unresolved issues. This in turn helps me to be more present to the people in front of me.

Be patient.
In my first year in ministry I have learned nothing more thoroughly than this lesson. Recently I memorized the Message version of 2 Corinthians 5:8, “Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace.” In ministry, many days go by where it seems nothing is happening, no one is changing or growing, least of all myself. But through patience, I began to recognize the small changes in myself and others: the ways pastors extended trust to me or how a congregant was willing to share a story with me about the loss of their child. Change is slow in coming, and ministry is hard work, but God’s grace is ever unfolding and not a day goes by without it.

Amelia, age 4, after her first day of preschool in 2018

I have always loved back to school season. As a child I looked forward to picking out my new folder and composition book, eagerly watching as my mother painstakingly wrote our names on every item that would accompany us on our first day of school. When I finally graduated for the last time, I would find myself in the back-to-school section of Target, looking wistfully at the bins of 24 count crayons and Bic highlighters. Sometimes I grabbed a box or two—$0.25 is a great price for crayons, after all.

This year is different, though. This year I have two excited five-year-olds who don’t quite understand the concept of a supply list. They want new lunch boxes even though their preschool ones are fine; they want the folders with kittens and unicorns instead of the plain red and yellow requested by the teacher. They want the MEGA pack of crayons. In another week or so I will sit on my bed with their supplies scattered around, just as my mother did, and carefully write their names on everything, including each pencil.

In a few weeks I will send my little ones on the bus for the very first time, and my heart will do little flips. Now more than ever I need a blessing on these children and the grownups I am entrusting with their care.

A Blessing of the Backpacks is a wonderful way to begin the school year, surrounding the students, teachers, and educational support staff of your congregation with prayer and blessings. I’ve developed the following liturgy over the last few years, and usually use it during the children’s sermon. It could easily be adapted into a litany so that many voices are represented and heard. The school supplies are in bold as a visual cue to hold up the item and let the children call out its name if you wish:

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Kitchen stories are the unsparing, honest, dirty-dishes-in-the-sink truths.

This spring, I took a job in a new church context. There is something so unique and exhausting about the first couple of months of a new job, trying to memorize names, make connections, and meet expectations which may or may not be spelled out. One major aspect of any new job is listening: getting people to open up, and hearing the stories that parishioners choose to tell.

As I listened to all these stories, I was reminded of something I heard at a conference a couple of years ago. The speaker talked about church in terms of parlor stories and kitchen stories. The parlor is the room in a house with immaculate carpet and formal furniture–parlor stories are those stories that cast the church in the most positive light. Parlor stories are the “official” history of the church and feature the content that would belong on a brochure. They are like a grandmother’s pristine furniture covered in plastic. They are the stories that I heard from people serving on the search committee when I was going through the interview process.

A parlor exists as a valid room of a house, and parlor stories are valid, but they are not the only truth about a church. In contrast to the parlor, different narratives emerge when people are busy scrapping food off plates and wiping down counters. Kitchen stories are the unsparing, honest, dirty-dishes-in-the-sink truths. Read more