I’m not 100% sure where to begin this post, because the
truth is I am exhausted (as denoted in my post, this morning, at These Ordinary
Days), and I am vulnerable (as denoted all over the place—in writing, in real
life, in spontaneous episodes of tearing up, recorded on podcasts… just…
everywhere…).
My feelings were a little hurt the other day when I couldn’t
wear a green scarf with any kind of integrity intact. It’s pretty hard to be a woman with both an
M.A. and an M. Div. in theology; who waited to start the formal ordination
process, because I wanted to give adequate time to the educational requirements
while raising a family; who writes and edits theological works; who counsels
and encourages other women who struggle with their callings; who really loves
scarves a whole lot… and to realize (kind of brutally) that your tribe doesn’t
consider you a pastor… or, at least not a pastor ‘enough’…
There’s that stupid word again.
Now, thankfully… right in the midst of this there was a denominational
leader who was all like, “This isn’t a red flag, L. You’re OK.
Just start the process. And come
teach and stuff” (super great paraphrase, mine). Then we smiled, and I went on feeling OK in
my orange paisley pants, without my green scarf.
But I say all of this not to expose my bitterness (I’m
actually not bitter… I made choices based on what I could handle at any given
moment, sometimes I absolutely stretched that to the max, and it really is OK
that my formal process is just going to take a little more time than others)
and not even to express my gratitude (although, thankful was definitely the
word of the hour after that conversation).
Everything I have just written is a preface to what I’ve felt in the
ensuing week (and more often than I’d like to admit).
I never set out to be a pastor. Seriously, who does? It still surprises me when I walk into ERs or
nursing homes or salons or down grocery aisles or sit down to have coffee and
someone introduces me to another human being by saying, “This is L. She’s my pastor.”
Interestingly, this is almost always followed by some ironic
disclaimer such as, “You can go ahead and say whatever you need to say in front
of her,” and I laugh (really hard, on the inside), because I know it’s
coming. People say stuff to me that I never
would have imagined anyone would be willing to share with a pastor! But I love that they do.
So I had this moment where one of my people was hospitalized
last week, and I actually couldn’t get to him, because this bilocational life
is for the birds, but my emotions were telling.
He’s mine. I’m his pastor. I immediately worried that some other pastor
who doesn’t know or care about his story would step in and be stupid or
something. How is this even a
concern? Well, it’s because I have often
been a pastor to the pastorless… to the people on the margins who don’t quite
fit the church mold. In many ways, my
not-enough-ness has made me exactly the kind of pastor they need. Go figure.
We gravitate toward people who look like us.
So, speaking of birds, I thought of the children’s story, Are You My Mother, as this post was
forming in my mind. If you are
unfamiliar with it, please take the time to watch this 8 minute video:
As the baby bird searches for his mother, the responses are
telling:
“It did not say a thing…” (Isolation)
“No…” (Exclusion)
“I am not your mother, I am a dog.” (Duh… don’t you know
anything, baby bird… uh… he’s a baby!)
“How could I be your mother?” (Do you really want to know?)
Poor baby bird begins to doubt whether or not he has a
mother, at all…
He is so desperate he tries to self-identify as a boat… as a
plane… a ‘snort’ (backhoe)… Well, that’s
just crazy and pitiful!
It’s not until the baby bird arrives home that he finds his
mother, and the interesting question she asks is, “Do you know who I am?”
Of course the baby bird does; but before he identifies her,
he speaks to all of the things she is not (not a cat, not a hen, not a dog, not
a cow, not a car, not a boat, not a plane, not a snort…)
Sometimes I think we have to figure out who we’re not before
we ever figure out who we are, and it can be a heck of a journey… It can take a really long time…
I’m a pastor, and I might even be yours—formal process or
not, green scarf or not, it’s coming.
The people who will one day give the green light and lay their hands on
my head to make it official already know this.
We’re all just waiting in eager expectation, and if there’s one thing I’ve
learned in life; it’s that I’d better take a moment to rest when it seems like
nothing is happening, because once it breaks loose I’ll have to hit the ground running,
and there’s no telling when another respite will follow.
And… marking time…
L.
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