I had to surrender.

Sunday before last, I was scheduled to preach while the pastor was on vacation.  I had agreed to do so well ahead of time and had even begun to strategize about it a few weeks in advance, wanting to ensure a well thought out message with engaging, and even humorous, illustrations.  I sometimes get feedback that I’m too serious from the pulpit, so I was going to make a deliberate attempt to stay lighthearted.  Despite my honest effort to be thoroughly prepared, events in my personal life took a turn that week, and I was not in a good place, when I arrived at church about an hour before worship.  My emotions were barely stifled.  I was unable to look anyone in the eye, because any sign of compassion might bring my struggle to the surface.

I sat in a front pew and read back over my sermon, gathering my courage to lead worship.  I realized as the scripture and message kept piercing my heart, how completely helpless I was to fulfill this obligation.  I knew that some 90-100 people were about to file in and expect worship.  I knew from past experience that some of them would be hanging on my every word, looking for an opportunity to send an offended and critical email to our pastor, validating their staunch insistence that women shouldn’t be preaching.  I knew that, for all the times in ministry that my personal issues had made my leadership role a challenge, this was the time.  This was the moment of complete surrender.  I knew that I, me, myself, Emily – I could not get through worship.

So I prayed.  I gave it all to the Lord.  I begged God to take over and use me in whatever way necessary to glorify him.  And, in a way I can’t explain, God did just that.  I didn’t plan my prayers, I just walked up to the pulpit and let it come out.  Every time I said "Amen," I was thinking, “Weird – that’s not really a prayer I normally would say.”  The sermon, thankfully, was all written out, but even in delivering it, I was constantly struck by the message of scripture; as if this message I had written the week before were not my own, but written for me.

That Sunday morning is one I will never forget.  People love the poem “Footprints” for how it expresses the notion of Christ’s partnership and support of us, the idea that we could look back and see the times Jesus was actually bringing us through.  But rarely do we actually feel his arms beneath us and know that right then, in that moment, we are being carried.  But that, my friends, is something I have experienced.  There are many hard times when I’ve fought through on my own, but praise the Lord to know how powerful Christ was when I was utterly helpless.

May that be a blessing I do not have to experience very often.

(This was my sermon illustration - thought you might enjoy...)

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28:19-20

Now I'm a WildCard.

My church does a prayer chain, where people can get word out to the entire church body to ask for immediate prayer, if something urgent happens.  They also publish a weekly prayer list in the bulletin.  It is a great comfort to know that your church family is lifting you up in prayer and I make a concerted effort to honor the prayer list and prayer chain in my own prayer life.  It also serves as a great reminder, as the prayer chain emails come into my inbox throughout the week, to pray ceaselessly.

My husband and I have always viewed “unspoken” prayer requests with at least a small amount of mirth.  I realize that second guessing someone’s prayer request is incredibly insensitive and probably doesn’t honor the things scriptures says about the need for and power of our petitions and praises to the Lord.  Nevertheless, it seems like there ought to be some way for a person to word their request that is at least somewhat more specific than “unspoken.”  Couldn’t they say “encouragement and support for a person in crisis?”  Couldn’t they say, “healing for a person’s pain?”  Something, anything, nonspecific and anonymous, that gives you more to go on than, basically, “just pray?”

Recently my husband received a prayer chain email on his blackberry, which I hadn’t gotten yet, because my email isn’t linked to my phone.  He alerted me that it was a prayer chain notice, and I asked what I should pray for and he said, “There’s two.  [Soandso] needs [suchandsuch], and WildCard.” I gave him a questioning look and he said, “You know, unspoken.”  It gave me a laugh, and I said a prayer, and we have since had an inside joke about “WildCard” prayer requests.  It doesn’t say what they want, so just pick something and pray about it for them.  Maybe they want the new shoes you’re praying they get, maybe they don’t; but at least you prayed.

So this week comes along.  I discovered some really tough truths about my life that I had previously failed to confront in their entirety.  I have some major challenges ahead of me, and it is going to affect my relationships – some in a potentially calamitous way.  I can’t talk about it; I can’t give more detail than that.  But I need, I covet, your prayers. 

So, I apologize to anyone who previously has made an “unspoken” prayer request, for my callous disregard for your need for privacy and the challenges you were facing.  Like that email, I make two requests: please pray for my friends and loved ones to have patience with me and honor the ways that they may notice our relationship changing, and WildCard.

 Always be joyful and never stop praying.  Whatever happens, keep thanking God because of Jesus Christ. This is what God wants you to do. 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

We're not wasting change, even when it feels like we are.

In our years of church life, my husband and I encountered a fairly steady stream of troubled kids.  Often they would come to church activities and programs with their wounds emotionally oozing all over us.  Whether it was sassiness, obstinacy, compete lack of social skills, or intense neediness and a relentless pursuit of our attention, it was easy to diagnose the deep, open hole in their soul, that no one in their life was filling.  After hearing a heartbreaking back story on one of these kids, my husband was discouraged, wondering what the point was in submitting ourselves to so much bad behavior; as if our meager kindness could somehow make a difference in lives that were so steeped in brokenness.

Trying to encourage him, and myself, I suggested the metaphor of a well.  Every kid has a well where they store up the love and care they’ve been given.  Some get their well filled at home, and they go out into the world whole and confident, needing only a little top-off now and then.  Others have an open, empty well, and we are trying to fill it up with one little penny at a time.  Every little thing you do for them, from a warm smile, to a pat on the shoulder, to a cupcake snack or a firm redirection, is a penny tossed into their well.  You pray you’re not the only one tossing in pennies, because it may never be enough.  But if enough of us are tossing pennies into these empty wells, we can hope and pray that it will eventually make a difference for a kid who never otherwise had a chance.

Once in a while, you actually get to hear a penny strike the bottom, like when a kid, half a dozen years later, quoted a lesson back to me about how I’d once challenged her to open her Bible to any page and she could find something encouraging about God’s love or power.  She said she’d tried it over and over again – and never failed to find a message of God’s love.  Those moments give you the encouragement to keep tossing pennies, don’t they?

If you’ve been tossing pennies into empty wells, I have another story of encouragement for you.  It involves my sister.  She is in Africa right now, about a day’s hike away from the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.  Lots of people will be impressed when she comes home and tells us the adventurous story of her summit attempt, but that’s just another feat on a long list of her accomplishments.

My sister was once one of those kids with the empty well.  She was sassy and rebellious.  She dated older boys, dropped out of school, moved out of my parents’ house, and added a tattoo to her piercings.  Not to hate on tattoos, but she went and got the biggest one she could afford.  She wandered a while looking for her calling, first in one state, then another, until she ran out of steam and money in Colorado.  My sister was never a bad person, she never pillaged or stole, got in trouble with the law, or hurt others, but she was definitely the so-tough-on-the-outside, you’d never guess she’s soft-on-the-inside young person, that others find difficult to love and even harder to help.  She also had a huge educational deficit.  She was bragging one time about how she couldn’t wait to get to college, because high school was so lame.  When I mentioned that someone who was flunking high school should hardly expect that college was going to be a breeze, it was not our friendliest conversation.

Fast forward fifteen years: my sister has a Masters Degree in Education and Curriculum Development.  She is bilingual in English and Spanish.  She’s studied and taught in Mexico and Spain.  She was accepted to a highly competitive Denver Scholars program that only takes 1% of its applicants.  She has three years of teaching under her belt, all in bilingual classrooms of the Denver Public Schools systems, at schools with free lunch rates over 75%.  There is no scheme those kids can pull on her that she didn’t once use herself.  She’s done all this with a G.E.D. and a well-full of pennies, tossed in by teachers, friends, aunts, grandparents, mentors and others.  I am so grateful to the people who invested their loose change in my siblings and me.  We’d never have become who we are without you.

Here she is at the top of a peak in Colorado. 
She's been blogging her preparations at: http://ucdkiliclimb.wordpress.com/

My sister applied for the program to go to Africa, knowing it was an incredible opportunity and willing to work for it.  She thought she might be able to get a half-scholarship.  Imagine her excitement when they offered her a full scholarship to come participate.  After she summits the mountain, she’ll spend two more weeks in Africa, experiencing as much as the continent has to offer and gaining a thousand moments of inspiration that she will bring back to her classroom this fall.  She got a new job this coming year – same district, but teaching Spanish and Art.  Where she will go on tossing pennies down wells – and now and then hearing a gratifying clink when they hit the bottom.

I think she’s pretty incredible.

 Don’t get tired of helping others. You will be rewarded when the time is right, if you don’t give up. Galatians 6:9

Why demolish something so sacred?

My husband jokes that if I ever become famous, they’ll have to put up more historic placards than they used for Ronald Reagan.  It seems like nearly every state has claimed a childhood home of the Gipper.  If it was me, they’d start with the hospital in Effingham, they’d mark the trailer court in Perrysburg.  There’d be East Carlisle Elementary, near Cleveland, where I attended Kindergarten in the basement.  Riverside would have to acknowledge the little ranch house on Priscilla Street, and the 1840’s brick house on Tyler Rd would become quite a landmark, because I wrote my name in the brick and the closets alike during my tenure there.  And that would be before my homeless college years, when I changed domicile from semester to semester and break to break.

The place where I spent the most time as I was growing up, however, would apparently be left off.  An old friend posted a photo this week of the demolition going on by the shores of Belleville Lake.  My high school is being scrapped, replaced by a fresh new building that, from the school district’s on-line slide show, looks very much like every other new high school being built right now, with beautiful glass atriums and state of the art everything.  It made me feel a little old, to see my high school being torn down.  I suddenly realized that it has been twenty years since I joined the choir, swam for the team, and bored the audience to laughter as the office messenger in Up the Down Staircase.  The building was outdated and lacking in many ways, even then, so surely those additional decades haven’t been kind.

For a moment, it felt like maybe I was losing something important to me.  That my next trip to the ‘Ville was going to be somehow lacking in some important connection or memory.  Like most people, I have this habit of believing that my emotions and memories dwell in the buildings where they happened.  But I haven’t been back in the BHS building since the last day I attended there.  In the last fifteen years, I’ve only even driven by once.  The relationships, lessons, life experiences, and memories that happened in that building are alive and well, living in me.  They are part of what made me who I am, and whenever I want to relive them, I have photo albums, yearbooks, and friends with whom to reminisce.  It makes no difference whether that building still stands or not.  But for a moment, looking at the photo, it mattered a lot.

We get the same misconception about faith.  We come to believe that God dwells in brick and mortar.  Oftentimes, we believe, God loves best to dwell where the seats are uncomfortable benches and the window views are obstructed by stained glass.  But it opens up a whole new kind of faith to tear down the church – at least figuratively – and let the relationship, lessons, and experiences live in you, and be lived out in you.  God doesn’t live in a building – God lives in people of faith.

My little heartache at seeing my high school torn down, reminded me again about letting go of the transient things of earth and letting the eternal dwell in me.

“But will God really dwell on earth with humans? The heavens, even the highest heavens, cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built! 2 Chronicles 6:18

I’m feeling called to First Church of Denny’s

When I offered to resign four months ago, I knew I was ready for a change.  But even as my last day was set, I still couldn’t really imagine not being on staff at my church.  Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings have been such an ingrained part of our family rhythm, relationships with the kids and friends at church have been such a substantial part of our social network, it was hard to comprehend that we were going to depart from those ways.  We fantasized about waking up on Sunday morning and going to church solely because we wanted to go to church, but we could hardly comprehend the possibility of not going.

Maybe it is short-timer’s syndrome, but the last four months, and the last week specifically, have made leaving so much easier than I thought it would be.  Maybe our eminent separation has given me clearer vision to see what was always there, maybe my eminent departure has created some fatalism about our church being able to effectively reach young families, but my vision for a welcoming, accommodating church reached an impasse.  The hot button issue that made my last official board meeting depressing and bitter: changing tables in the main bathrooms.  There were only two other people besides me who argued to keep them: the two women who, albeit 30-plus years ago, once had to change their babies’ diapers at church.  Everyone else in the room was a baby boomer father (i.e. never changed a diaper except in an emergency) or never had kids.  But we were out-voted and diaper changing has now been relegated to the back bathroom.

Will the loss of these changing tables directly affect the membership demographic of our church?  Probably not.  But it was, for me, a weathervane.  There are dozens of similar decisions over which I’ve voiced a minority opinion throughout the years; this one was, to me, one of the most ridiculous.  They are small plastic tables that fold up against a wall; a standard in any public restroom.  What do they hurt?  Someone had to wait an extra couple minutes to use the restroom, and someone else didn’t like how they distracted from the décor.  So they took them down and now parents, especially guests, will have to hunt down facilities down the hall and around the corner.

Maybe the changing tables aren’t a big deal.  Maybe none of my gripes or issues ever really mattered.  Maybe I was wrong to think I was called to my church to be an ambassador for the lost, or to help break down the barriers that have led 2/3 of my generation to avoid church, if not actively despise it.  Maybe my generation doesn’t belong in church after all.  Maybe we need a new place to congregate on Sunday mornings.

I’m thinking Denny’s.  They don’t quit seating at 10am; they serve breakfast all day.  They have changing tables and high chairs visibly available to accommodate your family.  You can come as you are; no one comments on your appearance.  You know your 10% is going to help someone who really needs it.  There’s no mention of “luck” when it comes to what is in the “pot.”  And they won’t quit serving it, just because you spill a little coffee on the carpet.

I need to find a new way to meld my concern for my generation, and those coming after, with my belief in church as the Body of Christ.  I probably need to take a break from church life and politics for the same reasons so many of my peers avoid it all together.  But in the mean time – I’m counting down to my first Sunday morning Grand Slam.

When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Mark 10:14

I have puppet music stuck in my head.

Did you know I made the first cut to be on the second season of Big Brother? I submitted my tape (back then, it was all VHS), and got a call back to go up to Minneapolis and interview on camera. It was also back when “real” people appeared on reality shows, not models and aspiring actors who already have agents and gigs. Anyway, I went into my interview ready to shine, and they about fell out of their chairs laughing when I pulled the stars from my audition video out of a paper bag. Two puppets: Jesus and Moses. I think it was my attachment to my then one year old daughter that eliminated me from further consideration, because the prophets and I rocked the interview.

My husband and I started leading the puppet ministry at our church several years before I actually hired on as staff. As completely dorky as puppet ministry sounds, it is one of the most fruitful ways that we have been involved. The youth who are now graduating still talk about the music and messages they first heard from the mouths of felt characters, back when they were small. With our combined creativity and resourcefulness, my husband’s extraordinary gift at bringing the puppets to life, and my ability to manage young people, we’ve come up with fresh ideas and lively shows for probably 14 years now.

Back around the time I summarized my personality for casting directors by appearing with Jesus and Moses, we took on organizing a puppet dinner theater for Holy Week. It involved preparing a dinner, decorating a dining room, seating charts, ticket sales, and a million little mind-boggling details. But the biggest endeavor was working with half a dozen teenagers to put together a three act show that would keep the audience’s attention between courses of food. Apparently the six weeks of rehearsals that led to our Good Friday show made as big an impression on me, as they did on the puppeteers, because every Good Friday, the soundtrack from Fish Tales runs through my head like, “Baby, Baby, Yeah,” after a Justin Bieber Today Show appearance.

There was a song about the feeding of the 5000, where Jesus took one child’s lunch of loaves and fish, and multiplied it to feed the entire crowd: or as the song put it, “fish sandwiches! What a plan was his! Supernatural Supper for the multitude!” Of course, you can’t forget the Good Friday number, “It was a good day. On a bad day.” Or the finale, “Do not fear! He was crucified, but he escaped the grave, he’s not inside, no, he’s not here. He is alive!”

Ten year old puppet lyrics, trumpeting through my mind, and recalling at once both the demands and the joy of a vibrant ministry. And, at the same time, filling my heart and mind with the bittersweet, compelling truth that this week is all about: the teachings, the sacrifice, and the resurrection of Christ.

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split Mathew 27:50-51

Don't make me sing...

As they passed out the songbooks, the emcee announced, “We borrowed these from the Senior Center…”  That’s when we knew we had been bamboozled.

Although we might have felt some obligation to attend the church’s chili cook-off anyway, it was a stroke of genius when the committee chair asked my husband to judge, thus securing the whole family’s participation.  They said there would be a talent show after the meal.  Maybe not our first choice for a Saturday night, but we could sit back and enjoy the accordion playing and card tricks, we figured.

Then, as quick as you can say, “zipa-dee-doo-dah,” the evening was turned all around on us.  Before a single act had taken the stage, the gal at the piano banged out the intro and, despite my husband’s best effort to wave off the song books, we were swept up in a sing-a-long against our will.  The music segued from that deliriously wonderful day to the fairy godmother’s “bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”  We felt none of the mythical Disney magic; we had hoped, like most talent shows, that audience participation would be limited to texting in our votes.

Admittedly, I could not help but laugh at my husband’s chagrin, and I sang louder and more expressively to add to his misery, but the real entertainment for me was in my mind.  I imagined all sorts of more entertaining alternatives to our current predicament.  Imagine if the pastor had come in dressed like Jiminy Cricket to sing Zipa-dee-doo-dah.  The only way to follow that up would be to have been for the choir director to throw on a tulle skirt and grab a wand for Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.  Instead of the hard knot of anxiety we all felt in our core in seeing that Hakuna-matata was next in the book, we would have felt wild anticipation for which old friend was about to come out dressed like a wart hog.  It wouldn’t have mattered that most of us were off-key.  It wouldn’t even have required any talent.  It would have, most certainly, made for a memorable and entertaining program.

So, church event organizers, I just thought I would share this tip for the next big event.  If we can’t bring the talent, let’s bring the costumes.

Kenaniah the head Levite was in charge of the singing; that was his responsibility because he was skillful at it. 1 Chronicles 15:22

I choose us.

My oldest daughter gave me the compliment of a lifetime.  “You know, Mom; you’re really great at being a mom.”  The baby was off her schedule, up too late, and still needed her dinner when we got home from the church Christmas program.  She was fussing and cranky, too worked up to focus on the spoonful of puréed chicken and noodles I was offering her.  My biggest girl was having her own late dinner across the table, observing the whole operation as I combined soothing tones of encouragement and gentle offerings of her favorite snacks to finally get the baby to settle down and realize that eating food could actually be the solution to her hunger.  To a ten-year-old’s perception, I accomplished the impossible; no one could ever get a baby that mad to stop crying and eat, and who ever would want to talk sweetly to a baby that’s screaming at the top of her lungs?  Well, don’t worry, it hasn’t gone completely to my head, but unsolicited feedback on my job performance is exceptionally rare and, in this particular case, well timed.

Many times I’ve heard from both working and stay-at-home moms that I have an ideal situation.  I get the best of both, being able to take my kids to work with me.  I’m not cooped up in the house all day with only children for company, but I’m not tied to a cubicle, staring longingly at my baby’s picture.  Oftentimes, that has been true.  But there are also many times when I’ve had the worst of both; where my professional to-do list had to compete with a teething infant or a curious toddler.  Unlike my stay at home friends, I couldn’t drop everything to attend to my child.  Unlike my working friends, I couldn’t drop her off at daycare and focus on my work.  As long as I’ve been working and mothering, there have always been days when my baby had to cry it out, when my kids had to play solitaire in the youth room, or when I had to pay someone else take them to the park on a summer day.  There have also been meetings that had to be carried on with a giddy toddler squealing during the video, youth group campouts that included school-aged tagalongs, and potlucks to which we just didn’t make it.  And I haven’t yet mentioned the cooking or laundry.

Working and mothering has always been a tricky balance, but I felt called to both, so I found ways to make it work.  There were seasons where I felt like everything was just right, and seasons where I could have quit my job at any moment.  Combining my twelve years on staff with the years of volunteering I did before I was staff, this year’s high school graduates and I have been together since they were in preschool.  I feel confident that God has used me in the lives of young people to shape their childhood for the better.  They have experienced the love of Christ through my church’s ministries in ways that God put me there to facilitate.  I do not question that, up to now, I was called to be both a minister and a mom.

But everything is different now.  Not just for me.  I see it with my husband and my in-laws, too.  When you put our littlest girl next to our oldest, it’s like a flash forward.  In a blink, they go from itty-bitty, to all grown up.  We really felt like we were trying to savor the days with each of our kids, but it is undeniable that our sense of urgency is amplified this time around.  We’ve experienced the speed of life first hand, and we just don’t want to let even the smallest moment get away from us.  There’s no “we’ll do that tomorrow,” or “maybe next time.”  I feel like Nicolas Cage’s character, Jack Campbell, in The Family Man.   I’m seeing how all those compromises add up.  I’ve come to the conclusion that even if you have the best job in the world, which I do, and Jack thought he did, God can still call you away.

Maybe I’m a wonderful youth and children’s pastor, but it’s my first and highest calling to be a wonderful mom.  I hope I’ve done both, but I’ve made compromises that I don’t want to make any more: compromises that God has laid it on my heart to back away from.  Perhaps it may demand I make a whole new set of compromises, as leaving my job means giving up a calling that has become part of my identity.  I fear that it may be a surrender to sexism in that it suggests that I can’t be the best mom and the best minister concurrently.  It will be sad, and it will be hard; it will turn my life upside down.  But we’ve made arrangements with the church for me to resign this spring.  When my kids get out of school this summer, for the first time, we will wake up each morning to see together what the day brings.  When my baby weans this spring, for the first time, it won’t mean that she crosses a threshold, whereby I must spend the majority of my income paying someone else to nurture her during the day.

I’m nervous about the financial impact; I’m anxious about my professional future; but I know I’m leaving ministry to pursue a proud profession that I’m gifted for.  And despite my uncertainties about what the future holds, “I choose us.”  Not over God, but over professional ministry, during this season of my life.

Good people live right, and God blesses the children who follow their example.  Proverbs 20:7

I serve two masters

“Mom,

Mom you make my life special.  Your life is crowded with 2 kids and 1 baby and 1 pet and 1 Dad.  You might have no time to play but you love me every day.  I love you how you cook dinner and coach our church.  But you love me below and above.  I need you brush my hair.  Your husband loves you too!

Thank you for all you do!

I love you Mom.”

I got three things I really needed this morning: a cup of coffee, a nice chat with my husband, and this note from my 7 year old.  It fell out of the desk drawer, just when I needed it.  As you can see, my kids don’t sugarcoat things for me.  They know my life is “crowded.”  They probably know better than anyone that I’m pulled in more than one direction and have to constantly make compromises between what I want to be doing and what I need to be doing.  Let’s face it, everything else aside, I’d pull them out of school every single day to follow some flight of fancy and adventure.  They might never learn to read and we might have to subsist on grass and berries, but it would sure be great to spend carefree hours together, discovering every beauty the world has to offer.

Scripture says we can’t serve two masters, because we will love the one and hate the other.  Of course, this is referring to God and money.  Sometimes I struggle with the ways that truth applies to my life, though.  I’m called, at a minimum, to serve at least three: my family, the church, and the Lord.  Making it even more complicated, I’m actually getting paid to serve the church, so perhaps the church should count as two – God and money?  But I already made a distinction between serving God and serving the church.  I guess because they sometimes seem like two different masters, as well, when the challenges and expectations of church life come into tension with my ability to devote myself singly to God.

Most of the time, I find ways to keep my masters happy.  Even if I don’t have time to play, I still manage to cook some meals, brush some hair, and “coach the church.”  Other times, I find one master or another to be exceptionally demanding, and I end up having to make things up to the others later.  I had a demanding master this week, she hardly napped during the day; she insisted on eating twice every night; she refused to enjoy her Jump-a-roo when I needed to prep lessons and make meals.  A string of sleep longer than 3 hours would be an incredibly welcome luxury right now.

But my husband got the kids ready for school every morning this week and kept the baby happy so I could teach the kids and youth on Wednesday.  The big girls pitched in when I needed someone to grab me a diaper or empty the dishwasher; they were well-mannered at the doctor’s office, and didn’t complain when I made zucchini.  And neither God nor the church stuck me down for being sleep deprived and scatterbrained at work this week.  Even the teenagers, as usual, were good natured and accommodating.  Who doesn’t love masters like mine?

My daughter’s note this morning brought all those moments together for me.  It was a welcome reminder that, even though I’m struggling to keep up with my many masters, my most important calling is still being accomplished: my kids know I love them “below and above.”  And hopefully my other masters are getting that message now and again, too?

No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money. Matthew 6:24, Luke 16:13

I felt weak and girlie

We recently rented A League of their Own to watch with the family.  It was an instant hit with our daughters.  I love that movie, because it illustrates with great humor and accuracy what women can achieve in male dominated fields, without sacrificing what makes them uniquely feminine.  Of course, the most memorable line of the whole movie is when Tom Hank’s character coaches with the same harsh language he would use on anyone who missed the cutoff on a key play, and his distraught player breaks into tears.  Everyone now knows, “There’s no CRYING in BASEBALL!”

Whatever it is, baseball, medicine, politics, or ministry, it can be tough to go against the grain.  Growing up, I believed I could be anything I wanted to be, from a firefighter to an astronaut, from a teacher to a lawyer.  I knew talent and education could limit me, and my height (and lack of coordination) might keep me from professional gymnastics, but I never thought of my gender as being a limiting factor.  Despite the optimistic naiveté of my childhood, I learned long before I pursued this calling that being a woman in a male dominated field would have challenges.  From having to explain repeatedly that you are the minister, not the minister’s wife, to the discomfort of professional meetings where you are the only female in the room, many circumstances and many individuals will force your awareness that you made an unconventional career choice.  Beyond that, it can be downright hurtful when members of your own congregation profess their view that the Bible clearly forbids women to be ministers, or confide to your husband they have to close their eyes to be able to take in a sermon when a woman preaches.

Those obstacles are frustrating, and thrust upon me.  But what bothers me the most is when I become the cause of my own insecurity.  Generally, it is in those times when church life gets a little too political, or when interpersonal dynamics get a little heated.  I am pretty sure that I deal with conflict in a very different way than a man would.  I seem to have two modes: passion or emotion.  Neither comes across to others (especially men) as rational.  When I’m passionate, it seems to scare people.  When I’m emotional, I feel like I’m feeding all the prejudices against women.

I had one of those experiences this week, where someone interfered with my ability to do my job because of their prejudices.  I couldn’t invoke the passionate response, because it wasn’t something I really even cared about.  But it made me mad, and I took it harder and more emotionally than I needed to.  Having to work that hard to control my emotions made me feel weak and girlie.  I could hear Tom Hanks in my head, saying intensely, “There’s no CRYING in MINISTRY!”  I did hold it together, only a couple people got a glimpse of my frustration, and I did not cry; but I felt intensely silly, and girlie, and like I was letting all my fellow women ministers down.

I commend to you our sister Phoebe, a deacon of the church in Cenchreae.  I ask you to receive her in the Lord in a way worthy of his people and to give her any help she may need from you, for she has been the benefactor of many people, including me. Romans 16:1-2

I’ve taken my family for granted.

It is a tremendous blessing that I have a large extended family. I have dozens of first cousins, beloved aunts and uncles, and grandparents whose longevity gave us the motivation to gather regularly and savor the great storytelling, hearty joking, and comfort of familiarity. Unfortunately, this cherished extended family lives stretched across the country, from Chicago to Arizona and from Texas to Wyoming. It is no easy task, staying close over the miles. I remember, a few months after starting college, feeling isolated and alone. I concluded that what I most needed was the comfort of a hug; something so simple, but so unavailable, in a place where my longest acquaintance was two months’.

Shortly into my college career, I began attending church. At first, I sneaked in the back unnoticed. My attendance was sporadic, and even the beloved greeter, who typically dropped by with a flower or cookie for visitors, never took notice of me. Eventually, however, I got up the courage to ask the choir director about joining the choir. She was kind and friendly and seemed happy to have me come to a rehearsal. At that first rehearsal, I was warmly welcomed and quickly found that these jolly souls, mainly my parents’ and grandparents’ age, appreciated what musical abilities I could offer, and even welcomed my weird sense of humor.

In the years since, I’ve had ups and downs with my church family. I have a deep appreciation for how they acknowledged and encouraged my call to ministry, adding me to staff and helping me get a seminary degree. Unfortunately, local church ministry can also be frustrating. Sometimes the demand to be constantly available, the sense of closeness that such a large church family feels for me and my family, can challenge my need for privacy, and my desire to be with and enjoy my biological family. Sometimes the generational differences in what effective ministry looks and feels like create barriers between us that feel insurmountable and make me question my calling. In the last year, especially with the overwhelming demands of pregnancy and newborn care, I’ve let the occasional snarky or insensitive comments of church members play on me more than usual. Even just a few abrasive people can sometimes lead me to group the whole church together as unappreciative and demanding.

Lately, I’ve been unfair. In a world where technology and distance have often disconnected people from each other, our church has offered a sanctuary of familial connection. They have surrounded my family with prayer during our trials and sorrows. Their joy in our return after maternity leave has been palpable. There are dear friends among them who demand to babysit my kids now and then while we have a dinner date, or else they complain that we’ve been hording them. My newest daughter has an exceptional collection of blankets, sleepers, rattles, and a beautiful cross-stitch birth sampler, received in equal shares from biological and church family who waited anxiously for her arrival, poised to love her heartily. I arrived home this week to find that my mailbox had been overloaded with the cards of well wishers, offering their condolences and prayers for my grandma’s death. I’ve taken for granted the love and connection that many others long for and live without. While other new mothers long for company, I must turn visitors away. While others face the burden of sorrow alone, I am humbled by an outpouring of empathy.

I am so grateful that in a lonely city, I found myself at home among people of faith, who long to love others as Jesus did. We don’t always agree on how that love should be expressed, but we do always agree on the one great source from whom it comes.

I pray that the Lord Jesus Christ will bless you and be kind to you! May God bless you with his love, and may the Holy Spirit join all your hearts together. 2 Corinthians 13:13

We only go to church for the prizes

Since starting my maternity leave, we’ve managed to get the girls to church all of four times; all Wednesdays, never on a Sunday. And that’s just the kids – my husband and I have made it only once, and we ended up leaving half way through the program. This probably will strike you in one of two ways:

a) Wow, for a minister, you sure bailed the first excuse you got. There are plenty of hardcore church devotees, and women who want to ogle the baby, who harbor at least a little resentment for our prolonged absence. If they had a new baby, they’d be in church praising the Father, and letting their church family hand it around and give it RSV, as soon as they could walk without assistance. My assertion about this is substantiated by an email received when the baby was ten days old, lamenting our failure to attend, and the dashed hopes of many in the congregation who had anticipated seeing us that Sunday.

b) Wow, you took your kids to church when you could have been home sleeping with the newborn? For those who either don’t go to church, or only go to church when they want to go to church, it’s nearly unimaginable that we would make such an effort when we clearly don’t have to. Especially when being on staff means that coming within a three mile radius of the building makes us a target for people to wrap us up, demanding face time with the baby or help finding things, organizing things, or handling their personal woes.

Another indictment against our choice not to come every Wednesday night and Sunday morning, is that we’ve been in the holiest season of church life, Lent. While Baptists don’t always make a big deal about Lent, we want our kids to understand the incredible significance of the crucifixion and resurrection, so we usually set these six weeks apart in our family. We avoid meat on Fridays, do some sort of daily or weekly family devotions, and give something up or commit to a short term spiritual practice. It is completely out of the ordinary for us to spend the entire season of Lent away from corporate worship and Bible study. Let alone, eating meat on Fridays and failing to make a significant sacrifice (although we both agreed that we are giving up sleep for Lent this year).

More than largely neglecting church during Lent, we probably wouldn’t have gotten the kids there as much as we did, if it weren’t for the end of the year incentives they would have missed. They made it for the Pajama Party; Talent Show; to complete a book, thus earning a trip to Incredible Pizza; and to spend their Bucks at the last AWANA Store. We didn’t attend Palm Sunday worship; we skipped the Maundy Thursday communion service. We will, however, be in attendance this Sunday. I like to believe it will be for the exceptionally special celebration of Christ’s Resurrection, but some will probably notice that the Sunday we finally chose to attend included an Easter Egg Hunt after worship for the kids; meaning, of course, that we are still attending only when there are freebees to be had.

In addition to our failure to attend so far, I will go ahead and confess now that, despite our return to church this Sunday, we are likely to miss most, if not all, of the Sundays in May, as well. I don’t equate neglecting church with neglecting Christ, but I probably could put more effort into getting there; if I really wanted to go. I guess in all honesty, while I’ve missed church and don’t want our congregation to feel neglected, being there – and therefore being their youth pastor – while sleep deprived and worried about caring for and protecting a newborn is a hassle I just don’t want to endure until I have to.

Jesus finished by saying, "People were not made for the good of the Sabbath. The Sabbath was made for the good of people.” Mark 2:27