What a Pastor Looks Like

Post Author: Michelle Bodle

“Well, I guess this is what pastors look like nowadays.” I have served in ministry for thirteen years now, and comments like these still strike me silent. I’m not sure what to say that isn’t assuming, snarky, or defensive, so I often just politely nod. 

The most recent time such a comment was made was at a funeral of a beloved church member. I had been walking with this particular woman, who I will call Annabelle, since the first month that I’d arrived at my new parish. She was someone who could no longer make it to worship safely, her body prone to falling and her mind ravaged by dementia. The first few times I visited her, she would cry, because she didn’t understand who I was, a stranger in her daughter’s home. 

But slowly over time, we built a relationship, by showing up month after month, bringing communion, and sharing in the singing of her favorite hymns. It also helped that I often brought her gifts from the church, small things to let her know that people missed her presence. Her tears transformed into smiles, perhaps because while she did not know my name, I represented the Church to her. 

The last few times we were together were marked again by tears. First shingles left her in debilitating pain. Then she struggled with overwhelming illnesses that eventually led to hospitalization and the decision to call in hospice. What was once a month-after-month visit became a week-after-week visit. Even when she couldn’t open her eyes, I held her hand, read the Psalms, and prayed.

There was no doubt in the mind of Annabelle’s family that I was her pastor. Even family members who I had not met in person knew of me and I knew of them. Her son remarked in the funeral home as we were sitting in the parlor, listening to the hum of the viewing in the other room, that I had made him, his mother, and his family feel loved and welcomed. 

Perhaps their gratitude is part of what made the reaction of other participants in Annabelle’s funeral so jarring. When I was introduced as Annabelle’s pastor, I was not warmly received. Hindsight allows me to say that they didn’t know me and weren’t affiliated with the particular church or the denomination in which I, and many other women, serve. Yet the looks up and down my body as they took in my dress and blazer were unmistakable. Those looks were followed with cold words: “Well, I guess this is what pastors look like nowadays.”

I wish I could say that we have come farther since my ordination over ten years ago. I wish we could say that we’ve come farther since women’s ordination, period. But those statements I’ve heard still hurt. They still are tainted by judgment and still steal my words from my throat.

What is one to say? That yes, this is what pastors can look like now? That kind of statement seemed small in the face of everything behind the comment, knowingly or unknowingly. But while her words hurt, they did not diminish my presence. At the end of the day, I wasn’t there for this woman, even if she was part of the service. I was there for Annabelle’s family. I was there to honor Annabelle’s life and to lift up her resurrection to eternal life. 

So that’s what I did. I sang the hymns Annabelle loved. I read some of the same Scripture passages that I had read at her bedside. And I preached the Good News of Jesus that death does not have the final word. 

I was not surprised when I left the funeral home that day that the woman with the cold words wouldn’t shake my hand. But I was surprised when Annabelle’s family, some of whom are distant from organized religion after years of hurt, came up to me with tears in their eyes, thanking me for being me, for being Annabelle’s pastor, for being there for them, and for showing up that day with all my heart.

I wish I could wave a wand and make words of judgment about women clergy go away, but I also know that this woman is not alone in her thoughts. If I can’t have a wand, I can have my call. And while my voice may get caught in my throat when people speak ugly comments, my call can’t be silenced. This is who I am called to be: a pastor to the Annabelles of the world for such a time as this.