OK, so it was a cheesy children’s sermon anyway. Though most children’s sermons—or at least the ones I give—come that way, this was particularly so. But it was Easter—my first ordained Easter!—so amidst all the preparations for Holy Week services, and especially my much-anticipated Easter sermon, I grabbed the first half-decent object lesson I found. At least the adults would like it.
I suppose January is as good of time as any to take stock in an organization’s progress. Annual meetings dot the calendars of churches, college presidents reassure alumni and alumnae with updates, and the United States president interrupts prime time television with his State of the Union address.
Sadly, there is no potluck luncheon following this address, but happily, there will also be no democratic and republican reactions, either.
by Kate Smanik Moyes
with the notion of embodied faith, not because I don’t like the idea, but
because I don’t like my body. My body is
a place of deep imperfection and frustration. It’s never thin enough, perky enough, cute enough, strong enough, or
As the chaplain
to a small women’s college my misperceptions of my own body rise to the surface
on a regular basis. My day-to-day
actions set an example for the women around me. The amount of rest I get, my fitness level, my stress level, and my
eating habits are of as much interest to the students as my theological
knowledge or spiritual well being. We often imagine that the minds of small
children are like little sponges, absorbing everything around them, and assume
that by college age this formation is done. But college students are much the same, soaking up the adult world
around them, trying on identities to determine which ones might fit. I know that just as they try on the personas
of the other students, they will also try on my identity to see if it mirrors
what they would like to be themselves. I
would hate to find out that my body issues reinforced or supported the same self-loathing
behavior in anyone else.
by Melissa Wilcox
The mother can lay her child tenderly to her breast, but our tender Mother Jesus can lead us easily into his blessed breast through his sweet open side, and show us there a part of the godhead and of the joys of heaven, with the inner certainty of endless bliss (Ibid. 239).
When my husband and I signed up for our labor and delivery classes at Meriter Hospital, I looked forward to these sessions with both excitement and trepidation. It was unfortunate that we missed the last class, which was on breastfeeding. I never really thought it would be a big deal. After all, my mother never had any problems, and I knew women had been doing this for ages. The thought of taking a class on a "natural" biological event seemed a bit strange.
by Abby Auman
Before we get to today’s offering…
Are you a writer, poet or visual artist? Do you play around with photography or paint? We want to hear from you!
Each month this column features new work by and/or for young clergy women. For more information about what we’re looking for, click here.
And now, on to this month’s feature…
by Katie Yahns
I am a bit of a curiosity in town. I know this, and if I go out wearing the collar, I now expect it: cordial smiles from the nuns and nurses at the Catholic retirement home, curious stares from many people, trying to figure out if I should be called "Father" or "Sister" or something else entirely, nods of bewildered greeting from all manner of people on the street, from policeman to punk rocker wanna-be. All in all, it’s usually a much more positive reaction than I would get in some other regions of the country and the world. And it’s not so bad, most of the time.
But what I didn’t expect is what happened to my parents on the other side of the country. In my hometown, they have become minor celebrities.
Because nobody else has a pastor for a daughter.
a sermon on John 5:1-9 by Katie Day
“Do you want to be made well?”
What an Ash Wednesday question.
On a day where we traditionally hear about our own sinfulness
and are faced with our own mortality,
“to dust you shall return,”
what a question to consider.
Of course we want to be made well. Of course we do. Duh.
by Katherine Willis Pershey
Oh, The Conversation. We’ve all had it. It’s a vocational hazard of being a female pastor. It often begins with the uncomplicated question, "What do you do?" But we just don’t have an uncomplicated answer, do we? Not only are there people who don’t know women can be ministers; there are also plenty of folks who believe women shouldn’t be ministers.
In the time since my ordination, I’ve gotten a better at navigating The Conversation in all its permutations. A lot of practice and a little bit of confidence go a long way. I try to be gracious and understanding and educational, but sometimes I wish I could just be feisty. Recently, a guy came to do an estimate for some work in the parsonage. He knew it was a parsonage, so when I opened the door to let him in, he asked, "Are you the pastor’s wife?" I politely explained that no, I am the pastor, but I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to retort, "Are you the sub-contractor’s husband?"
by Stacey Midge
They say mirrors never lie, and mine said “You look fabulous!” It was one of those nights when my clothes fit perfectly, my hair did exactly what I wanted it to do, and my skin had spared me its temperamental breakouts. I swayed to the beat of my stereo while applying mascara to my lashes without even worrying about whether I’d put out an eye. A little lip gloss, a final full-length mirror check, and I was ready to go. Extrovert that I am, I almost always love going out with friends, but that night, my whole body practically vibrated with energy. I was ready for something to happen. I was on the prowl.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flash of the simple, silver cross I usually wear when preaching. Just before I slipped out the door, I swear I heard it whisper, “Remember, you’re still a minister.” As if I could possibly forget!
by Heather Culuris
an only child, I never really understood the whole issue of sibling
rivalry. I grew up with my own room. My toys were safe from
the hands of younger siblings who might play with them and perhaps break
them. I had the attention of my parents and maternal grandparents,
without the competition of siblings. Then I married an only child
as well. We are a good match because we understand the other’s
need for space and independence, even though I have no sister-in-laws
to share stories with or nieces or nephews to dote on. Two years ago,
we gave birth to our child, who is still an only child herself and an
only grandchild on both sides. She has our attention, her own
room, the loving attention of four sets of grandparents and one Busha