To-Do Lists, 12 Year Anniversaries and Wondering if Ministry Matters

A couple of weeks ago I was getting ready to do a wedding and I couldn’t find the clipboard I usually use to hold my notes.  After some rummaging around, I found an old folder that would do the trick. As I was putting my papers in it, I noticed that there was something in the front pouch of the folder.  I pulled out a piece of paper that I instantly recognized.  “It’s my to do list!” I thought.  “When did I put that in there?”  Then I realized that it wasn’t a recent list; it was from at least seven years ago.  It had a reminder to call Dorothy, who died the year my daughter was born, and to connect to Freida, who is still alive at 94, but moved out west a couple of years ago. I smiled as I saw these names, remembering these dear women.  It also had a note for me about Sunday School lessons.  This also made me smile, as I am grateful that our church now has a pastor who focuses on next generation ministry, so I don’t look after Sunday School curriculum anymore.   

These things were nice to read, but I confess that my overall feeling as I read was not one of delight.  Instead, I got a heavy heart.  I couldn’t shake how very similar that old list looked to the one I had sitting on my desk at that very moment.  I start each week by pulling out a letter size piece of paper, folding it in half, and writing the things I have to do that week on one side, and the things that I need to do some time soon on the other. This piece of paper gets stuck in my day timer and I cross things off as I’m done.  It feels good at the end of the week when my list is full of crossed out reminders.  I did the things!  Yay me!  Yet, for all the things I’ve “crossed off” week after week as a pastor, I couldn’t help but notice that my current list, written at least seven years after the one I had just found, had a lot of the same things written on it.

I was, once again, getting ready for a Baptism class.  I had a note to get a membership class happening soon.  I had people to call, visit, and email. I still carry a burden for our young adults, who head off to college and university and who are so often lost to faith in those years.  I had on my current list the same words: “young adults.”  Nothing in particular to DO about young adults – but some sense that I need to do SOMETHING.  

When I found that old list I was coming close to marking twelve years since I had begun serving as pastor of my church.  I have had a lot of mixed feelings about this anniversary. In my heart of hearts, I know the good things that have happened through this time.  I know most of them wouldn’t even rightly fit on any “to do list.”  How do you quantify how people respond after a sermon, or someone who has felt God’s presence in grief, or what a child remembers after the Sunday School lesson they were taught in 2011?     

Yet, there was this list, starting at me.  Looking so much like every other list I’ve made for 700ish weeks in a row. I couldn’t help but ask:  Did any of it matter?  Did anything ever REALLY change?  What did it mean to do these little things, day in and day out?  Had I used my time well, and, the most jarring question:  Will my lists look like this in another 5, 10, or 20 years?  What if they do?  What if I am still visiting people who will later die, still running the same classes year after year, still lamenting another young adult that has decided they don’t believe in the God they loved as a child?   What if this list is what my ministry, my life, and my calling boil down to…will it be enough?

Some days, I’m afraid that it won’t be.  

Some days, some easy measurables would be nice.  Some days, some tidy statistics about how my input has led to specific “output” would feel gratifying (Examples:  2 hours of leading Bible study = 5 people helping the poor as a result; 1 hour of hospital visit = 1 week of person feeling assured of God’s love; 1 sermon preached = 10 people remembering anything I said. That kind of thing). Some days, I’d like to feel like crossing stuff off the list had really mattered…that it had mattered so much, in fact, that I didn’t even need to write it down again.

That old list reminded me of all these desires. So I hated that list, and how it made me feel.

Still, I didn’t throw the old list in recycling, as I usually do each week. I laid it in my office where I would see it, and where I have seen it most days since.  I have let it remind me about all these questions, all my esoteric “does-my-ministry-matter-why-do-I-do-this-I-could-have-been-a-lawyer-with-how-much-schooling-I’ve-done” questions. And of course the biggest question of all:  Does it matter? 

And then, when that nagging question comes, I remind myself of the necessary response: It doesn’t matter if it matters.

Isn’t it funny the things that the enemy can use to make you doubt everything about yourself? That day, it was an old piece of paper, an old to-do list telling me that my worth had to be measured, that my job in life was to produce results, that “success” was the goal, and that such success means having something to “show for myself.” How many people at your church, Pastor? How many people baptized this year?  How many books written, blog posts read, speaking engagements on your resume? How many things “finished” on your to-do list?

Listen, I know that I could indeed make a big list of all the great things that God has done through my ministry. I know a whole bunch of you will consider commenting on my wall or sending me a message and telling me about the ways you are grateful for my ministry.  Those things are nice, and I thank you, but they aren’t the goal. If I start to gauge living out my calling by whether people tell me I’m doing well, in fact, that can lead me to as many misconceptions as focusing too much on a seven year old to-do list.  This cannot be where I find my worth.   

Instead, every Monday morning I will start again.  I will sit at my desk, pull out a piece of letter paper, fold it in half and ask:  “God what do you need me to do this week?”   Then I will make a list.  I know some things will be on that list again, and again, and again.  But God isn’t calling me to keep track – God is calling me to be faithful. That is my calling, and it is one rich beyond measure.   

 

 

Preachers and Bakers and Sick-Children-Takers

I am still basking in the glow of an event in which I recently participated: “In the Company of Women,” a conference about women and men sharing in leadership in the Church.  The idea behind this gathering must have struck a chord, because while the organizers were hoping for 50 people to attend, they ended up with 230.   I should also add that this event happened in Toronto on the Friday before the May long weekend and it was scheduled to end at 5:00. I know that some of you who have not tried to negotiate traffic out of Toronto on a Friday or who have not experienced the citywide exodus that takes place on the Friday of the most beloved long weekend of the Canadian year may not get why this is significant, but those of you who have will get my point here:  people really wanted to go to this thing.  The mere fact that people cared enough to attend this event was all I needed to encourage my sometimes-pessimistic spirit.  Honestly, I could have went, sat down, looked around and left again, and my heart would have been full. But guess what?  There were also awesome presenters, with messages that have been tumbling around in my head and my heart ever since. I would like to share about one of them. It is about birthday cakes. 

The presenter was named Linda Ambrose.  Let me say here that I am confident that if Linda and I could have spent more time together that we would now definitely be best friends.  (Isn’t that how we always feel with speakers that we love?…but, like, seriously, I think we could be.  Let’s be friends Linda!!  Come stay at my house and let’s talk about all of the things!).  Linda is a professor at the University of Sudbury and has written extensively about the history of women in Canadian churches. At the conference, she shared several stories of women leaders who helped found churches throughout Canada.  One of my favourites was about a woman named Agnes McAlister. Agnes served as a co-pastor with her husband planting churches out west throughout the first half of the last century.  Through Agnes’ diaries, Ambrose was able to piece together much of her ministry, and she made one point about her life that really spoke to me.  She talked about how Agnes was often very busy. Her husband struggled with mental illness so she regularly had to look after the church on her own as she cared for him, and her large family. Even in his healthy days, she had a busy schedule to maintain.  In her diaries, however, she spoke of how the church helped her. She gave one poignant example: women who made her children birthday cakes.  Ambrose discussed how this act of doing this for her family showed that members of the church legitimized Agnes’ call, and I could not agree more.  As I have thought about those women making Agnes’ children birthday cakes, however, I have thought as well of how true it has been for me and my husband that it has indeed taken many people using their gifts to enable us to use ours.

I am a pastor, a woman, a mother, and a pastor’s wife.  With each of those roles comes things that I need to do.  As a pastor, I work many evenings.  I sometimes have emergencies that I need to get to quickly.  I work funny hours, and always on weekends. All of these things are part of my call and my gifting.  However, as a wife and mother, I also have other callings.  I want to mother well and be married well.  Unfortunately, we live in a culture where there are a lot of things that seem to go along with mothering well these days.  These things include well manicured lunches, pinterest-worthy birthday parties, and (I’ve heard some mothers manage this) children who wear clothes that match.  Nine years into mothering I have never been able to do it all, and I have felt guilty.  Confession: I don’t even have a pinterest account!  I have simply never balanced making the perfect birthday cake with being out at a board meeting the night before the birthday party.      

But you know what?  

I have had help.  I have had so much help from the people of God.  There are too many examples to list here.  I think of a time when my husband was away and I got a call to the hospital and how in less than five minutes one of our church-adopted-grandpas was at our door to watch the children.   I think of our board who was willing to meet later in the evening and meet at our house when we were pastoring together so that we would be able to put our kids to bed. I think of how they never even blinked when we would excuse ourselves to go read a bedtime story. I think of being very ill while pregnant and the woman from our church who offered to clean our house every two weeks.  (She would clean while I would lay in my bed working on my laptop). I think of people who have stepped in to care for sick children for us, and the woman who took our children for a special day out when I was off caring for my dying sister, so my husband could finish his sermon one Saturday.   And, yes, I think of birthday cakes.  Because you know what?  People have done that for me too.  (My favourite was the fire truck on my son’s third birthday).  

Agnes reminded me, decades after her death, that in the kingdom of God, we all function best when we all use our gifts.  Yes, this means men and women leading as they are called to do so. I PROMISE you that it is always better for me to preach than bake a cake…and I am so thankful that there are those that can bake the cake that I shouldn’t.  (When they need it, I will do the hospital visit, or marriage counselling or Bible study as aligns far better with my own gifts).

To reiterate what my husband and I shared when we spoke at the conference about our years of shared ministry: the kingdom of God comes most alive when we let people serve based on their giftedness instead of on their gender.  More than working a “little better,” in fact, serving in giftedness is essential for kingdom flourishing.  This definitely means allowing women with the gift of preaching the chance to preach.  It also means remembering that to let the preacher preach, sometimes she needs someone else to bake the cake.  

So, thank you:

Makers and bakers and sick-children-takers,

Prophets and pray-ers  and worship team players,

Tellers and teachers  and conference-creators…

Thanks for the ways you use your gifts, so I can use mine.

(Also, I really like cake).

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The World Can Turn Without Me

“How many of you have tried incorporating Sabbath into your life?” the retreat speaker asked. I squirmed a little in my seat. Not because I hadn’t tried taking Sabbath…I had tried, often.  But my mind went back to the past month and the four weeks in a row that I had worked on the day I had set aside for Sabbath.  I thought of many other months that were like this one.  “Trying” Sabbath was not my problem.  “Receiving” Sabbath was.

Sabbath is the biblical idea of taking a day off.  Thousands of years ago God commanded his people to take a day of rest once every seven days. On this day, they would do no work. Instead they would step back and remember their identity as God’s children and be reminded that God would provide for them.  It was meant to be a gift.  It was meant to be a joy.   

Although our understanding of how we keep commands like Sabbath changed when Jesus came, it does not mean that Sabbath keeping is not still a good idea.  In a world where we are often valued for what we produce, I think pausing from our work once a week to remember the world turns without us is a great way to practice trusting God. Also, it’s still meant to be a gift – a day without work is, in theory, something to be enjoyed.   

“Why is Sabbath so hard for me?” I thought.

I thought of how strictly we had to honour Sundays in our house growing up – no swimming, bike riding, and certainly no “work.” (Not that we would have had time with two church services and Sunday School every Sunday).  I thought of a song we used to sing called “You must not play on Sunday.”  I also had a flashback to when I applied for my first job as a pastor.

Because I lived in a different city I was granted a phone interview for the position.  A faceless person I’d never met asked: “If you got this job would you see Sunday as a work day?”

Before you hear my answer, let me tell you that I already knew what Sunday would include if I took this job.  I would oversee children’s programs starting at 9:30 each morning (and set up ahead of time), and participate in the 11:00 a.m. service.  I would return that evening for another worship service and afterwards gather the youth group for their Sunday night program. It worked out to well over 8 hours each Sunday.   

It might surprise you, therefore, to hear that my answer to the question went something like this: “No, I wouldn’t.  I mean, as a church member I’d be attending church anyways. Sundays would still be my Sabbath.

I didn’t know if I had given the “right” answer until when, having received the job, someone on the interview team told me what I didn’t see during my phone interview: that when I replied someone had got on the ground and started to bow to the phone to indicate their pleasure that I “got it.” I felt so proud and pleased when I heard this. I got the answer right!…Right?

Maybe not.

I want to acknowledge here that I was well loved by this church, that I loved serving there, and that I was always encouraged to care for myself by my Senior Pastor.  But I can now see that we had all grown up with the same message that I had also internalized:  Christians are supposed to work really hard for God, and work for God isn’t really work anyway!  It is worship.  It is service. It is what we have been called to do.  Why would a pastor need to rest from that?    

In the many years of ministry to follow for me, learning to see Sabbath taking in a new way took some adjusting.  Acknowledging that what I do Sundays is worship, service, calling AND work from which I need to rest took a few years.  Taking a “normal” two day weekend of Friday and Saturday (even though almost every Saturday includes some work for my job of some kind) felt like a luxury I hadn’t earned.   

This may be why I still too often say “yes” when people ask if they can meet on my day off  (“I felt rude telling them it was my day off,” I argue with my husband as I get ready to head out).  It’s almost certainly why I keep my phone close by (“There may be an emergency!”) and why I will reply to messages that could easily wait a day (“If I just reply quickly then it will be out of mind and then I can focus on my day off.”).

I see it as a type it: I still believe the lie that if I work really hard, and do extra things, and go “ above and beyond,” that someone, somewhere is somehow seeing this and maybe even bowing from a distance to tell me what a great pastor I am.  

I know I am not alone in thinking this way. I’m not the only one who has come to believe that working really hard will affirm the identities about ourselves we hope to be true. The messages are everywhere!

If we are out every night driving our kids to endless activities, we are good parents.

If we bring extra work home from the office, we are good employees.

If we produce a lot, and do a lot, and make a lot, we are good workers.

If we give a lot and serve a lot and volunteer a lot, we are good citizens.

But you know what?  

(And I say this with great confidence)…

Ain’t nobody bowing, anywhere.

(Or if, by some bizarre chance they are, they’ve got it just as wrong as we do).  

We will never do enough.  We will never produce enough.  We will never work enough to cross the magic line where we feel we can say:  “Now I have proven who I am.”  

We will never be done all we have to do in order to be ready to rest, to turn off, to slow down.  We will never answer every phone call, write every sermon, visit every person who needs our support.

We will never do it all.

So I say we take a day.  We take a day and rest.  We take a day and enjoy.  We take a day and worship.  We take a day and feel God’s delight instead of our own condemnation. For me, this does not mean pretending a day when I actually work really hard is Sabbath just because it happens to be a Sunday.  For you, this may mean signing the kids up for one less activity, leaving work at the office on Friday night, or putting your phone on silent for one day a week.   

And remembering…the world can turn without us.

ALLELUIA!

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Why I Am Not Wearing My Engagement Ring (And Other Thoughts on Lent and Dying)

 

I always talk about following Jesus as the way to life, and I believe that deep down in my bones.  I also know deep down in those same bones that the way to this life often starts with death – as annoying as that can be.  The last couple of years of my life have been a season with much dying for me.  I’m not talking about the death of loved ones, but the death of things that distort the true purpose of my life.  Ironically, even though they are things that harm me, they are things that I often hold very dear, and letting them die is not always easy.

Dying to Proving Myself

For example, one thing that I had to die to in recent years was the idea that I could do everything myself.  When my husband, who had been my co-pastor for ten years, started another job, we didn’t hire someone for his position right away.  And you know what I said about this?  (I laugh as I remember):  “I am really excited at this opportunity to prove that I can do this on my own.”  And I meant it!  I relished the challenge of showing what I could accomplish all by myself.  

This was not how things turned out.

Instead, those months involved a whole lot of me learning that I need help. Things didn’t always go well. I was not always equipped.  I did not have all the gifts and skills on my own to make everything work.  It felt awful – because I was dying.  Slowly, God was inviting me to die to the need to prove my independence.  This was not so that I could be humiliated or feel insecure – it was so that I could live!  The reality was that trying to prove how competent I was all the time was not fun.  In this season, God invited me to die to my working so hard to prove my worth, and live in something better:  dependence on God, and shared life in a community of people that are God’s gift to me.  When I stopped grieving not being able to do everything on my own, I saw and rejoiced in a better way – dependence, trust, and life. 

Dying Again

This brings me to today, and the ways I’m still learning to die, which is particularly fitting to consider this time of year.  On the church calendar we are in the season of Lent.  Lent is the time leading up to Good Friday and Easter.  Traditionally, it is a time to contemplate our own deep need for God, and to name and lament the things in life which cause us pain and death.

One of the ways we can live into this truth during the season of Lent is through giving something up.  In the past I have given up meat or soft drinks.  Some people give up chocolate or social media.  This year, I asked myself an honest question:  To what do I need to die?  And I decided that for the 6 weeks of lent I would not wear jewelry.

This is going to sound like I have very valuable or high end jewelry, which I don’t. It may also sound like I’m really into jewelry, which I’m not.  However, I do wear jewelry most days.  I like to wear big hoop earrings and chunky necklaces.  In fact, most mornings, after I get dressed, I take a few moments to “decorate” myself in jewelry.  Since the first day of Lent, I have skipped this phase of getting dressed each morning, leaving on only my watch (which I generally need for work) and wedding ring (I mean, I don’t want to get the hopes up of single men who may meet me and see me without one… It’s important to be considerate). 

Why would I do this?  Because of something to which I think I might need to die. In the last few months, as turning the big 4-0 draws imminently closer, I realize that I am growing overly anxious about my changing looks.  Those deepening wrinkles and stubborn grey hairs bug me.  I find myself missing the careless ease of how I looked in my youth, and putting more work into my appearance.  A little more make-up.  A little more time choosing what to wear.  A little more money on creams and lotions.  A little longer picking out the perfect jewelry.

I decided that removing this one small part of my routine would remind me each morning that my looks do not need to be an identity marker for me.  It would remind me to remember that God tells me I am “wonderfully made.”  I admit that over the last four weeks, there are times that I feel incomplete.  I put on a certain shirt and think: “This looks so BARE without a necklace.”  Then I remember that it’s okay. I pause and thank God for my healthy, useful body just as it is. I look at the wrinkles and the white hairs spiking out  at weird angles (Question:  Why are the white ones so CRINKLY???). I let them bug me and then I let them go.  I am trying to die to the lies that tell me youth is more beautiful, that tell me wrinkles should be fixed and that tell me I need to decorate myself to look more presentable.  They aren’t true.  In dying, I am seeking, and finding life – life that is free (er) from worrying about how I look.

This doesn’t mean that I will never wear jewelry, or nice clothes, or put on make-up.  This hasn’t been about jewelry; it’s been a practice to remind me of something I was forgetting about who I really am.  For that reason, on Easter Sunday I will select some lovely piece of jewelry (even though likely bought from a yard sale or thrift store), and wear it with joy because Christ is risen  and I live in life, not death.  I will remember that with or without jewelry, wrinkles, or my original hair colour that I am still God’s. I will celebrate that my life has value because of whose I am, and be glad that I can wear lovely things without relying on them to make me lovely – or loved. 

I will celebrate that my life has value because of whose I am, and be glad that I can wear lovely things without relying on them to make me lovely – or loved.

I also know it won’t be the end.  Yeesh, this dying thing can grow a little tiring, I admit.  I will have more seasons where I realize I am holding something too closely that is not a way to life, and I’ll have to die again. The good news is that, while we pause and remember the alternative during lent, we are Easter people.  And Easter people LIVE.  Jesus promises us that death is not the story – it is always life.  

And You?

If you are wondering if you are living into something that does not lead to life for you, I ask you to consider where you feel despair, or hopelessness, or inadequacies.  Where do you say: “I’m failing at this!”?  Where do you say: “I wish I was more like…?”  Where do you hear voices say: “You’re not good enough…”? Those may be areas where you are not called to push and pull to hold something more tightly, but actually to let something go.  And it may be that in dying to them, you find life in something so much better.  

Even if it involves taking off your engagement ring.

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“We Could Have Gone to Florida: The Weird Thing I Miss On What Would Have Been My Sister’s Birthday

Note: This piece was written three years ago, on the first birthday after my sister’s death.  It was unpublished until today, on what would now be my sister’s 52nd birthday. I still wish we could have gone to Florida.

Today my sister would have turned 49. It is impossible for me not to think of all the things that I miss about her today, all the things that I feel like I lost on that day back in May, the things that we were already losing on her 48th birthday when the cancer was slowly taking over.

Today I grieve that I cannot phone her on her birthday.  I grieve all the phone calls I could not make this year, and all the ones I will never make. I miss hearing her voice. I miss listening to her bustle about her kitchen as she told me about her day.

I miss going to the Village Mall at 9:00 p.m. just “for a little look around.”  I miss waiting for her to try on “just one more top.”

I miss venting to her.  I miss that person who understood exactly what it was that was driving me crazy.

I miss Aunt Roxanne. I miss her cards and messages to our kids. I miss the way she loved them so well.  I miss listening to her read them stories.  I can hear the echos of her voice in so many stories that I read to them, remembering just the ways she would have read them. She did the best dragon voice for the “Paper Bag Princess.” I miss her dragon voice.

I miss brainstorming with her.  I miss discussing what Ralph the Raccoon could talk about in Sunday School.  I miss analyzing a skit for music camp or a costume for the school play.  I miss her awesome ideas.

There is so much I miss – her laugh, her dimple, her joy, her love.

But today, what I really miss, is Florida.  Which is funny – because I never went to Florida with Roxanne.  I went to Florida when I was 15 with my best friend, and I liked it well enough. I never had a particular desire to go back.  And now I miss Florida very very much.

A few weeks before Roxanne died, I spent 10 days in Newfoundland at her home.  They were a whirlwind few days. Her health had turned quickly, and as people realized she was in her final days, the visitors never stopped.  She was no longer fully herself.  She was too tired, too exhausted from trying to get through each day. She was not up for sentimental conversations, even though everyone wanted to have them with her.   On my last day of that trip, I knew that I might never talk to Roxanne in a real way again.  I prayed for days about what our last conversation would be like.  I asked God to grant me the right things to say. There was so much to say.  And I’d already realized that those “last conversations” rarely happened in the way movies tell us.  You know the scene – where the dying cancer patient is somehow well enough and coherent enough for a heart felt good-bye before slipping away peacefully while wearing Christmas shoes?  Yeah, having been at a few deathbeds in my profession, I can tell you that doesn’t actually happen that way very often.  Like so many other terminally ill people, Roxanne just didn’t have it in her for those kind of talks over and over with everyone who wanted them.  But I did hope that I at least could have some time alone with her, a few moments just to connect together.

She was actually well enough to sit in her living room for a few moments on that last morning before I returned home.  Her husband was out shoveling snow.  And there we were with our few moments alone together.  We talked a little bit about how she felt about things. She shared again that she was at peace.  We chatted a little more, and it was obvious she wasn’t in the mood for another heart wrenching good-bye.  Then I found myself blurting out: “Roxanne, it just really makes me sad that we won’t get to be old ladies together.”

And she smiled a little and said: “We could’ve gone to Florida.”

It still brings tears to my eyes to remember it.  Not because it was a sad moment – but because it was true!  In that moment I could picture us as two old ladies – because after a certain age 13 years of age difference isn’t noticeable anymore – gallivanting in Florida.  Going to outlet malls.  Wearing big hats.  Eating at a lot of restaurants.  All of Roxanne’s favourite things. And I can assure you that old lady Roxanne in Florida is just about one of the most fun things that I can picture.  I can assure you that THAT would have been one great vacation.  Or perhaps yearly vacation.  Oh, how I would have loved to have gone to Florida with old-lady Roxanne. How I would have loved to be old ladies together. How I would have loved to be ladies still hashing things out on the phone, still discussing whether a new top really suited us, still hunting for a bargain.  How I would have loved to hear Roxanne planning a party for the Seniors group at her church.  How I wish it had been able to happen for us.

It probably sounds silly that, with all the things I grieve, that I grieve for Florida.  I grieve for a trip that never happened, but the image of which in my mind is as clear as if it happened yesterday.  I grieve for all the things that won’t be.  I grieve that we never will be old ladies together.  I grieve because 48 years were good – but they just weren’t enough.

Because we could have gone to Florida.

 

“Maybe a Senior Pastor: Why Seeing Women in Ministry Matters

I can’t tell you how many times I have spoken at a church or event and had a woman tell me afterwards:  “This is the first time I have ever heard a woman preach.”  I’m never quite sure how to respond. I usually say something like: “I’m glad you could see that.”  Then I leave the conversation with a mixture of sad and happy feelings.  I’m happy that they’ve seen for the first time a way that God uses women; I’m very very sad that they’ve never seen it before.

I have been a pastor for nearly 15 years, and I keep thinking that maybe we have turned a corner so that I can stop being an anomaly for so many people. However, while things continue to improve, I know in my heart that the corner is still there.  I know that when I speak at many events that I don’t speak only as Leanne, or as the pastor of Mount Hamilton Baptist Church. I speak as a woman. I speak for all women pastors and leaders and teachers, whether I like it or not.  

Sometimes it feels like a big weight to bear, to carry the task of “proving” that God calls women to serve in a role like mine.  Sometimes I try to downplay in my mind how significant it all is – “I’m just doing what I always do,” I think to myself.  But then a woman taps me on the shoulder and says some version of: “Thank-you for showing me a woman can do this,” and I remember. I remember how important it is that what I do is seen and known and heard and processed – especially to young women.  Sometimes I need to remember again that it matters that young women see women in ministry.

Let me tell you a story.

This summer my husband and I served together as teachers at a teen camp.  One evening, I attended the annual “Girl’s Night” for the women and staff.  Over snacks and pedicures, I chatted with a few of the staff and campers. They had many questions for me.  “So, you’re the LEAD pastor of your church, right?”  (“Yes I am.”) “Do you preach every week?”  (“Most weeks, yes.”)  “What did you do when you had children?” (“I took maternity leave, like other working women.”)   

The responses went like this:

“That is SO cool.”

“I’ve never seen that before.”

“I wish our church had a woman pastor on staff.”

(Then, because I could, I had to add:  “Actually, guess how many of our 3 pastors are women?…ALL OF THEM!” They really loved that. One girl poked her friend…”Did you hear that?  All of the pastors on their staff are women!! Isn’t that awesome??”).

One young woman in particular had lots of questions for me, because she also felt called to ministry.  She was intrigued, and excited, to learn that I was the Senior Pastor at my church, because she’d never met a woman senior pastor before. She explained to me that she was in her last year of Bible College, and was planning to pursue a Master’s degree in ministry and become a youth pastor.  I encouraged her in this call, certain of what a gift she would be to the Church.

Now let me tell you the really good part.

On the last day of camp,  I happened to overhear a conversation between another adult and this same young woman.  She was explaining her plans for her future.  “I want to be a youth pastor,” she said, as I expected to hear.  But then I got an unexpected surprise, when, after a little pause, she added something she hadn’t said before:  “Or maybe a Senior Pastor,” she said.  

Maybe a Senior Pastor.

My heart soared!

Now, I don’t know for sure if my presence over that week had anything to do with this. What I do know is that earlier in the week she had shared one option for her ministry, and that after a few days of seeing a female lead pastor teach, she added a new “maybe.”  I believe that “maybe” wasn’t only about a certain job.  To me, in that maybe, I heard: “Maybe God can use me for any role in the church.  Maybe I can trust God for anything.  Maybe there’s more than one option for me.”  

Let me tell you this: I want more of those “maybes” for young women in the church. And then I want all those maybes to turn into certainties – certainties that God can call our young women to any role, any calling, and that they can say “yes.”

How does it start?  It starts when they see women who are doing it.  This means that it matters that young women see women in ministry.

Churches and pastors…does it matter that you make an effort to include women in your teaching rotation, to have women on your boards, to let them share in your service?  

Yes.  

Conference, retreat, and event organizers…is it important that you look for those women speakers, even when you may have to look a little further? Is it important that there are women up front, fully participating and leading?

Yes.

Women pastors…does it make a difference when young women see us and hear us serving as we are called (even though it feels a little unfair that we too often have to represent all women when we are simply following our own calls)?

Yes.

Young women need to see women in ministry.

This weekend my husband and I spoke at another youth event.  The event was for a denomination that affirms women in ministry, and so a woman speaker was not a stretch for them at all.  Yet, young woman after young woman came up to me:

“You’re the first woman I’ve seen preach.”

“I didn’t know women could do that.”

“Thanks for reminding me God can use me.”

My sisters, I’ll keep speaking and being here until all your “maybes” turn to “yeses.”

speaking

 

January Blahs and Epiphany Wonder

This morning I thought: “I don’t know if I can make it to the end of January.”  It was 8 a.m. and there was not even a sliver of sun to be seen. It was cold.  It was dreary. The kids were wound up and stir crazy.  I was still sniffing and coughing from my lingering winter cold, and the forecast warned that it was going to snow.  I felt defeated. The day ahead seemed very very long, and the night to come, I knew, would only feel longer.  It was just so…January.    

january-blues

Every year I find January long, tedious, and depressing.  I say this even as someone who loves to ring in the new year and who celebrates her birthday early in this month.  These things I like. The problem is that somehow there is still so much January left after all of this stuff happens (doesn’t New Year’s already seem like eons ago???), and knowing there is still three weeks to go in this wretched month makes me want to crawl under the covers with a good book until Valentine’s Day.  

Last week, on a particularly frigid day during this cold snap, I had to park in a public parking lot.  When I drove up to the ticket dispenser, my window wouldn’t open because IT WAS FROZEN SHUT (I write this in all caps because it must be yelled). As I wedged myself around my car door to get the ticket, with a line-up behind me and my eyelashes freezing to my glasses, I cried out to the universe at large: “Why? Why do I live here?”

And I didn’t mean this country or this city or within this particular weather system, but really why HERE, in this time, this moment, this month?  In January?  In truth, the time in which we find ourselves can be as difficult and hard to negotiate as any space, and there are times and seasons where it seems the most helpful option would be to press fast forward and skip it all together.

Get out of January and into spring. Skip the struggle of learning and get to the joy of knowing.  Bypass the grief and get to the healing.

But this is where and when I am, and neither are without their purpose.  Interestingly, it has been a practice of time that has reminded me of this truth this month, and that has been pushing me out the door each day even when it’s -25 outside.  

Some of my readers will know that for centuries the church has had what is called the “church calendar.”  This calendar highlights important seasons and days in the Christian faith, and includes far more than the standard Easter and Christmas with which we are all most familiar.  As I wrote about in my last post, for example, the season leading up to Christmas is known as Advent. It is a season of waiting.  Usually, after Christmas arrives, I don’t look at the church calendar much again until Lent (the season leading up to Easter) begins.  This year, however, I studied a little more, and found myself greatly challenged by the remembrance of Epiphany.

Epiphany on the church calendar falls on January 6 (although there are traditions that honour this, and other holy days, two weeks later), and it is the day that we remember the time when the Magi (or three kings, or the wise men, as they are sometimes known) came to see Jesus.  This is considered the first great “manifestation” of Christ – that Christ is revealed to these men, and, more broadly speaking, to those outside the Jewish faith.  It is an indication that Christ had come for the whole world. Epiphany is a celebration that God makes God’s self known.

After January 6, there are some traditions which continue to celebrate the weeks to follow as a continued season of “Epiphany,” and there are those which will mark each week in January as a certain week “after epiphany.”  There are also many traditions, including my own, which don’t really talk about these seasons at all.  The church calendar, after all, is not a biblical teaching. However, it is a church tradition that reminds us of the importance of many Biblical stories and also calls us to enter into the life of faith in a tangible way with the passing of each new season. This, I believe, is a gift we can sometimes miss in some of our traditions that use the church calendar less than others. 

For many years, although I knew what it was, I missed Epiphany. I missed the invitation to see this season as a time to look for God’s revelation. This year, I’m glad to have heard the invitation more clearly.  I know that when the church calendar was constructed that no one involved in it had any idea of what a cold Canadian January could be like, or how desperately a January-weary Canadian woman would one day need to remember this season.  But I sure do need to know this month in a special way that God is always revealing God’s self, and that, like the Magi, I can seek, and I can find.

So this January, despite my reluctance, I am trying to live into Epiphany. I am resisting the urge to hide, cover up, retreat, or complain, and embracing the call to look, listen, respond, and be thankful.  Already today God revealed His goodness to me in a kind gift from a friend, the encouragement of a timely message, and a nudge to contact someone I hadn’t thought of in a while.  Revelation all around …and three weeks of January still to go!

Do you join me in having the January blahs?  Perhaps God is also inviting you to choose Epiphany wonder over January woe. Like the Magi who followed a mysterious star, may you too see the signs of God around you and follow them towards Jesus.