Feed My Sheep

There is a funny thing about pastoral ministry in the Mennonite Brethren tradition that has nurtured me into my pastoral vocation, and it's a pattern which I particularly noticed as I listened to the stories of other Mennonite Brethren women who have pastoral gifts as part of my research for my MA thesis. There is a culture that is often presented to women in which we're not supposed to really advocate for ourselves or to be 'pushy' or 'strident'--yet, our gifts for ministry often go unrecognized unless at least to a degree we're able to find a way to advocate for ourselves. It's a bit of a catch-22. (To be fair--this may also be true for men, and for people in ministry more broadly--I happen to have had the privilege of listening to the stories of this particular group of women, and can only speak to my own experience and what I've heard shared by others).

The thing is, I think I'm past caring about being perceived as being too forward or too pushy. So I'm just going to say it. What have I got to lose?

As I have gotten to know myself better, and as I have gotten to know God better over the past couple of years, it has become apparent to me that some of my strongest spiritual gifts are pastoral. I feel like I am most fully the person God created me to be when I'm living into those gifts. I am happiest when I give myself permission to 'just do it' and not to ask for permission or try to exercise my gifts in such a way as not to make anyone uncomfortable. I've had affirmation from my community in doing so. But mostly, as an intuitive person and as someone who is learning to trust my heart, I just know this is what I was made to do.

I'm currently pastoring in a season in which there are so many people around me who have been hurting really, really deeply. And it's sometimes excruciatingly hard to bear witness to the pain and be powerless to stop it--but that's the call. I'm not the Healer--God is. But I am called to be present, to care for the people whom God loves deeply, and to bear witness to God's love for them even in the midst of pain.

And somehow, in the process, I'm learning that it's in exercising my gifts that I also come to understand my God more intimately. I used to assume that spiritual gifts were given in order to make the church more effective in bringing about the Kingdom of God here on earth. Now, I find myself wondering if at least part of the 'gift' of spiritual gifts is that it helps us to understand something about God's nature and character that we couldn't otherwise understand, and thereby experience something of God's Kingdom in the process.

In this challenging season of ministry, I find myself understanding the parable of the lost sheep at a whole different level, as I viscerally experience the longing to leave the safe flock behind to go after my hurting sheep and bring him or her back into the fold. In that experience, I feel like I come to a deeper understanding of God's immense love for each one of God's children.

I have come to a new appreciation of Psalm 23, which has always felt overused to me in the past, as I recognize the truth of the fact that our Shepherd walks alongside us through the darkest valleys--for even when we cannot ourselves sense the Shepherd's presence there, as a pastor I have had the opportunity to witness God's presence in some pretty dark situations even when the person who was hurting the most wasn't able to see it themselves. And I understand God more for having experienced it.

If I'm a pastor, God is the ultimate Pastor. And I think the same is true for other gifts--if my gifts are creative, perhaps they mirror back to me something of God as Creator that I couldn't otherwise know. If my gifts are healing, they draw me into the presence of God as Healer and Great Physician.

Could it be that the gift is that as I exercise the gifts that God has given me, I grow in intimacy with the Giver? And could it be that as we share our experiences of our gifts, that we together gain a richer picture of who God is as the Body of Christ?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Welcome?

I heard an ad on the radio recently. It was a pastor of a local church, saying that one of the most frequently asked questions he receives is, "Will I be welcome at your church?"

His response was to quickly assure people that everyone is welcome at his church.

I would like to believe that's true. 

And I've heard many, many other pastors use similar language of welcome--everyone is welcome here. Many church websites also make this same blanket assurance.

I just worry that in our rush as pastors to assure people that they will be welcome, we're not taking their questions as seriously as we ought.

For a while last year, I attended worship at a local United Church. The congregation was in the process of discerning whether or not to become an 'affirming congregation.' For them, the question was not whether they were prepared to be welcoming to people of all sexual orientations and gender identities--those were questions that the congregation had long since worked through together.

Instead, they were taking this process seriously as an invitation to assess whether they were ready to welcome and offer full inclusion to all people. Was the building accessible to people with physical disabilities impacting their mobility? Was gluten-free communion available, so as to offer people with celiac disease and gluten intolerance the opportunity to fully participate in worship, including communion?

I was deeply impressed, as a visitor listening in to snatches of this conversation among the people of this congregation, and when I moved on, it was with a deep desire to be part of a church that takes welcome as seriously as this congregation did. Their example is one that I hold onto, and frankly I hope to see more of the Body of Christ wrestling with this as honestly as they were.

Because I've spent some time in the past year or two visiting different churches, and wondering, "Will I be welcome here?" And I'm not looking for a pat, "Of course you will be."

What would be really meaningful would be for someone to slow down long enough to wonder about my reason for asking. Because, frankly, we're not asking just because. I suspect many of us have had experiences where we felt unwelcome, and we're hesitant because we're afraid of being hurt again.

When I ask if I'll be welcome, I want to know if there will be room for me to fully participate along with the other members of the body of Christ in this place. I want to know if I'll be welcomed as a woman who has been hurt in the past when there wasn't space for me to fully exercise the gifts that God has given me. Others want to know if they will be able to be open about who they are, or if they will need to hide their sexuality in order for them to make a home here. Still others want to know if they will be welcome because they cannot afford to dress the way the majority of people in the congregation dress, or to drive the types of vehicles that fill the parking lot, or to place sizeable donations in the offering plate. And some want to know if they'll be able to be honest about the struggles of depression and anxiety, or if they will have to pretend everything is okay.

We have different reasons for asking, but it's a serious question and one that we hope you'll take seriously before you give us the quick Sunday school answer.

Because at the root of it all lies a deeper question, and we hope that your answer will be clear in both your words and in your actions: Will God welcome me, just as I am? Or will I have to dress up parts of myself for God, too, in order to be accepted?

Our answers deserve careful thought. Because they matter.

Permission to Flourish

I have a particular knack for biblical Greek. It's not a talent that has gotten me far in life, having an aptitude for a language that is no longer spoken anywhere in the world, but nonetheless, I found my niche in my final year of seminary and, as it turns out, finished my degree with my highest grade yet. (My final grade in Biblical Greek 2 was high enough that my professor apologized for tweaking it because the university's computer system wouldn't accept a course grade any higher than 100%--thank you bonus marks!) And yet, I found myself consciously allowing everyone in my biblical Greek class to believe that my male classmate was the one who really had it all figured out, not me. What did it matter, really, if it was more comfortable for everyone to believe that he was at the top of the class, even if I knew fully well that it wasn't exactly true?

I worked as a junior high youth pastor for four years before leaving that job to pursue my dream of seminary studies. When I left, in spite of the fact that I had a university degree in youth ministry and six years of volunteer youth ministry leadership experience prior to taking that job, a man announced at a church business meeting that my position had been 'developmental' and that I had been hired without fully meeting the position criteria. It was blatantly untrue, but somehow it was widely accepted nonetheless. And neither I nor anybody else said anything to correct him.

I sat in many church meetings in which I would offer an opinion that went largely unheard, until a man would repeat virtually the same thing. Suddenly, it was brilliant.

Stories like mine are far too common for women in ministry, especially within certain Christian traditions in which the legitimacy of having women assume leadership roles are still subjects of vigorous debate. In which the glass ceiling is alive and well.

And, to be honest, most of the time I was so grateful just to be given the opportunity to do what I loved in whatever capacity I could get that I was happy to shrink myself to a comfortable size, and to depend on the good will of male colleagues, in order to be allowed to have a place at the table. Every time I preached, or led worship, it was with the very real fear that I might not be given the opportunity to do so again.

But then, two weeks ago, someone presented me with a pointed challenge: "Kathy, you're a pastor. You need to bring your pastoral gifts to the table. Nobody else can do it for you. And you don't want to be left in the future wondering what might have turned out differently if you had brought your very best pastoral presence to the situation."

It was perhaps the first time someone has called me out on my complicity, on my tendency to shrink just enough to make everyone else comfortable. It was the first time that someone has called me to accountability for not squandering the gifts that God has placed within me, and instead challenged me to bring the very best that I have to offer every time, regardless of what anyone else might say. It was the first time I'd really felt challenged to STOP. MAKING. MYSELF. SMALL.

And, because I deeply respect and trust the person who called me out, I have been trying really hard to live into this permission to be the best, most pastoral, self that I can be in the work that God has called me to. I've really tried to live into the invitation to see the situations that I come across through pastoral lenses, and to think about what a pastoral solution might be. I've really tried to love unapologetically, instead of second-guessing my instincts. I've given myself permission to embrace the deep joy that I feel when I'm doing this work that God has created me to do.

And, wouldn't you know it, I'm happier now that I've given myself permission to embrace the gifts fully and unapologetically. When I lean into the gift and ask myself, what kind of pastoral words might this conversation call for, I feel like I'm being more fully true to who I am. I'm happier. I have more energy for my work. I'm really and truly enjoying what I do.

Too many of us are still shrinking to fit within the boxes that the church has offered us, and the whole Kingdom of God is losing out as a result. And I wonder what kind of courage it might take for me to offer someone else the same gift that my friend offered me--the gift of permission to flourish, to be fully and unapologetically the person that God has created her to be, regardless of what anyone else might say.

It's easy to expend a lot of energy grieving the systems that create this dynamic in the first place--and that is a legitimate thing to grieve over. I've done plenty of grieving of my own. But instead of waiting for a system to change, when we know systems move so very slowly, what about subversively and lovingly changing things for one person at a time? What about intentionally looking for those places where gifts are being hidden, and inviting people to step fully into their true selves?

Marianne Williamson wrote, "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure."

What if we work to change the system from the bottom up, by banding together and encouraging one another to step into our power?

I'm so grateful that someone did it for me!

It's a Love Thing...

I went to church with my parents this morning. It's always a coming home of sorts, returning to the church of my childhood, worshipping in the same elementary school gym that has, over the years, become sanctified space for me. Today the woman who read the epistle reading happened to be the person who, more than anyone else in my life, taught me while I was still in elementary school about the importance of things like projecting your voice and using clear pronunciation when reading in church that are lessons that I carry with me as a preacher to this day. The people in this congregation have watched me grow up since I was a little girl, for better or for worse, and the passing of the peace becomes a 'welcome home' with as many hugs shared as handshakes. This is a place where I know without question that I am loved and that I belong. These are my people.

Today's gospel reading was the well-known story of Jesus' late-night conversation with Nicodemus, found in John 3:1-17. About what it means to be born again, about the wind of the Spirit that blows wherever it pleases, about what is necessary in order to have eternal life.

The minister's sermon was a good one. But the whole time he was speaking about our tendency to want to manage the good news and wrap it in religious rituals that allow us to hold it, to own it, to wrap our hands around it, I recognized a different message taking root in me--the sermon that I wanted to hear someone preach. The words that I needed to hear this morning, more than any others.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." (John 3:16) Probably the most widely recognized verse in the Bible. Probably so over-quoted that we preachers tend to avoid preaching on it because it so easily falls into the realm of cliche.

But this morning, I was drawn to those six words as if they were somehow highlighted on the page: "For God so loved the world."

The thing is, I've been pushing hard lately. My tendency is to find my limits, and then push just a little harder to see if I can stretch things a bit more, eke out a little more productivity before I hit the wall. Lately, it feels more like I'm hitting the wall and bouncing off--I'm done. I have found my limit. And now that I have arrived at the threshold of a week off, it's a tough adjustment to decelerate from the 120 km/h that I've come to take for granted, to reconnect with myself and with my Creator, to relearn how to rest, to remember what I enjoy and what gives me life.

And in this in-between space in which I find myself, I find myself needing re-grounding. I need to be reminded of the very basic things of who I am and of who God is. To be reminded of why I was called to this ministry in the first place. To be brought back to my first loves one more time.

In this liminal space this morning, my heart's longing was not for a sermon about our tendency to oversimplify the gospel to a set of 'spiritual laws' that tell us exactly what we need to know in order to be born again, as much as we need that reminder. It wasn't for a sermon about a God who is bigger than we can hold onto, although that's true as well.

I just needed to hear these six words: "For God so loved the world..." I just needed to be reminded that this whole thing--all of Scripture, all of life as a follower of Jesus, hinges on this basic truth: I am deeply loved by the God who loved the world. We all are.

Nothing in seminary could have prepared me for the actual experience of ministry, for those moments in which I am overwhelmed by the inner certainty of God's love for one of the ones I'm called to care for. Nothing could have prepared me for the actual experience of sitting with one of these dear ones, listening to her fears and questions and doubts, all the while carrying within me an overwhelming experience of the love of God for her which she herself cannot hold onto in that moment. So I hold this precious gift, this love, until she's ready to receive it, returned to her in doses that she is able to absorb, because it's too big to be held all at once.

Nothing in seminary could have prepared me for the moment when, preaching, I know--I just know--that particular words are intended for a particular congregation member. So, as I speak, I look in his direction, and our eyes meet, and for an instant, I'm the vessel through which God speaks to one of His dear ones.

Nothing in seminary could have prepared me for these moments when I get to experience the immense love of God, for an instant, and understand with certainty the truth that John proclaims: "God is love...We love because God first loved us." (1 John 4:16, 19).

And in those moments, I'm reminded that as overwhelming as it is to sense deep within the extent of God's love for one of His dearly beloved, so great is his love for each one of us. Including me.

That's what I needed to hear this morning. That I'm loved. It's that simple. Not the most intellectually challenging message. No 'aha' moment. No lightbulbs going on. Nothing fancy at all. Just the reminder that, when I've hit the wall, even here God's love can find me, his hand can guide me, his presence will hold me fast.

So many words have been written and spoken about this God thing--entire sections of libraries, entire bookstores dedicated to explaining it. And yet, so often I think, its this simple truth that we really need to hear, that distills the whole thing to its essence. It's a love thing.

(With apologies to Twin Kennedy, whose song inspired the title for this blog post.)