any day a beautiful change

Women in Ministry: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

2013-05-24T02:00:00.000-05:00

This photograph of the Rev. Heidi Haverkamp was taken on Pentecost Sunday. It was shared with several others on the Facebook page of the Episcopal Church of St. Benedict. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. They say it because it is true. (Photograph by Adam Frieberg; posted with permission.)

In the last days, God says,

I will pour out my Spirit on all people.

Your sons and daughters will prophesy,

your young men will see visions,

your old men will dream dreams.

Even on my servants, both men and women,

I will pour out my Spirit in those days,

and they will prophesy.

(Acts 2:17-18)

About Today's Contributor

Heidi Haverkamp blogs at the Vicar of Bolingbrook and ministers alongside the people of the The Episcopal Church of St. Benedict. Her gifts for ministry include teaching, preaching, spiritual guidance and counseling, worship planning, and developing and supporting lay leadership. She also has experience as an organic farmer, mental health worker, cook, and legal secretary, and led a small church in rural New England for a year as a lay interim pastor. Heidi grew up in Hyde Park, on the south side of Chicago, and now enjoys the wide-open spaces of the western suburbs and the constant availability of parking spaces. She likes to garden, cook, and spend time with her husband, Adam Frieberg, a photographer and ordained minister in The Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).

About the Women in Ministry Series
The Women in Ministry Series is a collection of guest posts that aims to provide an alternative to the women in ministry debates by telling the stories of women in ministry and encourage women to explore their God-given callings.

Contributions Welcome
Contact Katherine at katherinepershey[at]gmail.com to pitch your post idea in 2-4 sentences. You can stay updated on the latest post each week by signing up for the weekly e-mail list.

Comment Policy
Everyone is welcome to leave a comment. However, this series takes for granted that women are called by God into every facet of ministry. This is not the place to debate that point and such comments will be removed. Women have been told “no” in far too many places. This is one place that is committed to saying “yes.”

More Information
For more about the comment policy, submitting your own story, or to sign up for the weekly e-mail list, go here.

FOUND

2013-05-23T13:50:00.000-05:00

I am utterly baffled.

They were on the dresser today, right where both Ben and I had looked several times.

I am also very, very happy.

Thanks, Saint Anthony. You're quite good at what you do. Go help someone else find something important now.

O, Saint Anthony

2013-05-21T21:42:00.001-05:00

I lost my rings yesterday. Or maybe Sunday. All I know is that when I went to put them on Monday morning, they weren't on the dresser with my watch. Neither were they on the windowsill, or on my nightstand, or any of the other places they frequent.

I knew immediately that I wasn't going to find them.

It was only a matter of time. They didn't fit properly, at least not in the Midwest, where the size of my fingers fluctuates with the weather. I'd already lost and replaced my engagement ring once. I'm lucky they are reasonably replaced. Silver and amethyst are cheap, relatively speaking.

Still, I've missed my original engagement ring. I miss the tiny grain of sand that got embedded in the filigree on the day Ben and I went to the beach in Cape Cod.

And now they have both vanished. The replica engagement ring, the wedding ring that was blessed at the altar nearly eleven years ago. Poof.

Yesterday was a bad day. I was just about to leave work to pick the girls up for Juliette's ballet class when I heard about the tornado. I got caught up for a few moments, checking the news and following the comment threads on my Oklahoman friends' Facebook feeds. By the time I got home there were just minutes to spare, and Juliette was in the midst of a huge temper tantrum, and all four of us were upset and frustrated and it all added up to one of the most unpleasant episodes in recent Pershey family history.

I told some friends about my rings this morning. I was feeling sorry for myself. It's been a rough year. Not a catastrophic year. More like a one-thing-after-another year: anxious and expensive and wearying, with plenty of lovely moments in between the plumbing and medical emergencies. I didn't need to lose my rings, you know? I needed them to just be on the windowsill, and then to slip back on my fourth finger where they belong. But like I said: they're gone.

One of my friends suggested praying to Saint Anthony, and sent me this prayer:

Dear Saint Anthony,
you are the patron of the poor
and the helper of all who seek lost articles.
Help me find the object I have lost
so that I will be able to make better use of time

I will gain for God's greater honor and glory.
Grant your gracious aid to all people
who seek what they have lost-
especially those who seek to regain God's grace.

As wildly superstitious as I can be, I rarely cross my superstitions with my faith. And there's something about this prayer that feels like superstition.

But I started to pray it anyway. For the heck of it, I guess. What can it hurt? But midway through I just stopped cold. I couldn't pray it. Not when on the same day I lost my rings so many people lost everything.

Many people have shared that tear-jerker of a clip in which an elderly woman being interviewed at the site of her demolished home is suddenly and unexpectedly reunited with her dog. She'd presumed it dead, but someone off-camera noticed movement in the rubble, and the woman pried her terrified pet out of the mess. She was overjoyed, almost speechless. And then she said something about how she thought God had only answered one prayer - sparing her own life - but he'd answered two.

Even through my tears I cringed. I want to give people the space to interpret the world according to their own theological frameworks, even if their believes differ from mine. If it comforts you to tell yourself that everything happens for a reason, well, good. I can't reconcile that phrase in my own life, but I'll honor that it works for you. So when that woman talked about God answering her two prayers I wanted to let it be, but I immediately thought of the people whose prayers were not answered. What does it mean for a prayer to be "answered," anyway?

I am fairly sure the thought I had when I was praying that prayer of Saint Anthony is bad theology. But nevertheless: I had the passing, irrational thought that I could make a trade. I'll allow my beloved rings to be sucked into oblivion, forever gone, forever associated with The Day There Was That Horrible Tornado in Oklahoma and Juliette Lost Her Mind Before Ballet, if somebody else who is seeking something lost - something with flesh and blood and please, dear God, still a beating heart - can receive God and Saint Anthony's aid and be reunited. Can we cut a deal, Saint Anthony?

I'll let you know if they turn up.

Women in Ministry: Sisterhood

2013-05-17T03:00:00.000-05:00

Adele Henderson has received a lot of support and affirmation in her ministry - and now she wants to pass this gift along to her sisters.

I am a G.R.I.T. What’s a G.R.I.T? A Girl Raised In The South. I am also Baptist. The first 20 years of my life I was a Southern Baptist and for 20 years now a Cooperative Baptist. What I have come to realize at the age of 40 is that I did not have your typical Southern Baptist upbringing. See, in Raleigh, NC I grew up in a church affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) where we had women deacons and a female music minister. I never heard that a woman’s place was in the home or teaching in a Sunday school class. I heard Foreign Missionaries, who were women, talk about the work they did and the support they needed. I saw my mom active in the lay ministry of the church and both girls and guys preaching on Youth Sunday. What I heard growing up was that God wanted a relationship with me and was affirmed by my church when I responded to the call to Theological Education. As a result I never thought about the need for support from fellow women in ministry.

During my time at Campbell Divinity School, 1998 – 2002, I went to my first NC Baptist Women in Ministry (NCBWIM) event. I can’t tell you much about it because the only thing I remember was it being in Greensboro, NC and I got to see my former Campus Minister. Looking back I never saw the importance of me being involved in NCBWIM. Don’t get me wrong, I have heard the stories from fellow classmates and ministers of rejection and shaming all because they were women and were responding to the call of God. But in my narrow-mindedness I didn’t or couldn’t see my role in advocating and speaking out in favor of women in all forms of Christian Ministry, including the pulpit. After graduation in 2002 God continued to bless me through a church in Tarboro, NC where the pastor provided me multiple opportunities to preach from the pulpit. And when I interviewed for my current job I was asked questions that centered around my philosophy around Christian ministry, my education and experience not about my gender or being single. I was and am respected as a minister.

As they always say, hindsight is 20/20 and I have changed and what changed was my first Virginia Baptist Women in Ministry (VABWIM) event in April of this year. I must first make a confession that I was not planning to go until my Supervisor at work said to me if I wanted to go that it would be covered under my budget. But what happened in 24 hours in Richmond, VA on April 19 – 20 took this narrow minded woman and opened her eyes, heart and mind wide opened. I felt the power of Sisterhood. I couldn’t relate to the stories shared at the breakfast on Saturday morning but in hearing those stories two things happened: God showed me how much I have been blessed as a woman in ministry and that my gifts of listening and pastoral support are not only useful in my work with at-risk youth but with my fellow sisters in ministry who have had to fight for every bit of recognition they deserve but have not always gotten. In being blessed I must and want to bless the sisterhood and work alongside them so that future girls can be welcomed and affirmed for their God given gifts and their role in preaching the Gospel. I am grateful for my new found role in the sisterhood.

About Today's Contributor

Adele Henderson is an Ordained Baptist Minister and serves as Chaplain at HopeTree Family Services in Salem, VA. In her free time she enjoys photography and walking her dog Sophie.

Ten on Tuesday

2013-05-14T21:29:00.001-05:00

1. It is SPRING. Among other things, this means we have a ton of yard work to do. We haven't really known how best to care for our landscaping, so we have overgrown roses and errant buckthorns everywhere. We made the excellent decision to bring a professional - a landscaping designer who spent an hour walking through our yard telling us what to do and how to do it. It was an investment, but we've already saved so much money by doing necessary things ourselves. For instance, we pruned this previously ludicrous crab into a beautiful tree fit for climbing. I'll have to take another picture tomorrow because it is blooming gorgeous right now.

2. Juliette got to visit her kindergarten class today. It was a very sweet and well-organized event. The current kindergarteners filed into the gymnasium and were each to approach an incoming kindergartener and invite them to kindergarten, and then be their buddy while they went off to explore the classroom. Not one but two boys from church made mad dashes for Juliette. After a brief moment in which one of the boys looked mighty crestfallen, it was decided that Juliette could have two buddies.

We are totally in for it.

Juliette loved every minute of the whole experience. She doesn't have an iota of self-consciousness or anxiety, just pure excitement and openness.

3. It was very fun to see this graphic pop up in my Facebook feed. I read this and thought - among other things - "Gee, he must have had a great Speech and Debate coach!" And indeed he did: my very own sister Elizabeth.

4. I'm reading The Art of Fielding. I love baseball novels more than I love baseball.

5. Practicing Families, which is a fantastic resource for holistic, home-based spirituality, just posted a downright glowing review of Any Day a Beautiful Change.

6. On the way home from church today, Juliette and I decided to take the long way and ride our bikes through the underpass rather than cross the tracks during rush hour. As we were coming through the tunnel a woman on the other side was shushing us and pointing up. It turns out there is a fox hole on the hill over the underpass, and a baby fox was poking its head up. We clambered off our bikes and watched him come out all the way, looking right at all the people who had gathered to see him. When a dog barked he jumped back in the hole. It was by far the closest I've ever been to a fox, and the only baby fox I've ever seen. Amazing. I wish I'd thought to take a picture but I was just too mesmerized.

7. The reason we were leaving church so late was entirely unexpected and entirely infuriating. You may have heard of the Willis Sister Crazy Consumer Gene. If you ever wish to see this familial condition in action, by all means: WRONGFULLY SEND ME TO COLLECTIONS. No, seriously. Lose a payment, inexplicably hold another to the start of the next month so that two months go by without a payment posting, and then send a collections agency after me without so much as giving me a singular warning. YOU WILL SEE MY WRATH. I have literally spent hours sorting all this out, between the wildly incompetent medical billing office and the enormously helpful Bank of America Online Billpay team. I know we're supposed to hate Bank of America, evil big corporation, etc., but they have been so very helpful in vindicating my good name. They faxed the proof of payment not once but twice, since the incompetent billing department gave the wrong fax number the first time.

It's a good thing I have naturally low blood pressure. Hmph.

8. Thanks to this helpful tutorial from Tsh Oxenreider, I've settled on Feedly as my post-Google Reader RSS service. I like it, quite a bit more than Flipboard and The Old Reader, the other ones I tried. The app is even better than the desktop version, and I almost never use apps (except, of course, for my beloved instagram.

9. Speaking of Instagram and cellphone/tablet photography: Do check out the class Elizabeth has coordinated through Big Picture. It looks soooooo cool. (Make sure you watch the video.)

10. And this one. Oh, this one.

100% dickens, 100% sweet as could be.

Some Things are Mutually Exclusive

2013-05-14T12:34:00.000-05:00

People keep shooting people on accident. People keep shooting people on purpose. People keep shooting themselves.

And there are so many children involved with these shootings. Like the one in Kentucky where the five-year-old boy shot and killed his two-year-old sister with a rifle made for children. Not a toy rifle, mind you, the ones that look frighteningly real save for the little orange cap mandated by law. A real rifle that looks like a toy, but is can be used to kill.

I cannot stop thinking about what that boy will have to live with for the rest of his life. “It’s a Crickett,” the coroner explained. “It’s a little rifle for a kid… The little boy’s used to shooting the little gun... Just one of those crazy accidents." No, as a friend-of-a-friend said: Not an accident. A totally preventable tragedy. Heartbreaking.

I've scoured the Crickett website for information about how old they suggest children should be before using one of their products. Maybe they consider this a question to be answered by parents alone, but I found it hard to believe that it wasn't even in the FAQ section. They do explain that "The goal of [Keystone Sporting Arms] is to instill gun safety in the minds of youth shooters and encourage them to gain the knowledge and respect that hunting and shooting activities require and deserve."

I find "gun safety" and "guns for small children" to be mutually exclusive.

(More on the legal issues related to this incident, from Slate.)

Women in Ministry: The Accidental Pastor

2013-05-10T02:00:00.000-05:00

April Yamasaki's story is a powerful testimony to the fundamental conviction underpinning the Women in Ministry Series: God calls women into ministry. Period.

My husband and I had just decided to join a local congregation when the pastor abruptly resigned. Quite literally, he was there one Sunday, and then gone the next. It wasn't the best introduction to a new church, but in spite of the turmoil, we decided to join anyway. After all, we had been getting to know the people, we both taught at the related Bible college, I had even been a guest speaker at the church several times.

Without a pastor, the congregation relied even more heavily than usual on its members to do the work of ministry, and I was asked to lead a series of four worship services for Advent. I was happy to help, and after my very first Sunday planning and leading worship, a woman whom I later learned was part of the pastoral search committee came up and asked, "How would you like to be the pastor of this church?"

I just had to laugh! That was the furthest thing from my mind. I thought I already had a strong calling--to teach, write, and be involved as a member of the church. Pastoral ministry was nowhere on my radar screen.

But that Advent as I continued to lead worship and to be part of the church, the questions kept coming. Finally I received a call from the chair of the search committee. “We hear that you are very happy teaching and writing,” he said, “but we would like to talk with you about pastoral ministry at the church.”

By that time, I was no longer laughing--but I was also not at all sure that I wanted to meet with the search committee. Although I had a Masters degree in Christian Studies, I had no pastoral experience, and the church was still reeling from a very difficult pastoral resignation. If there is such a thing as a match made in heaven, I was quite sure it didn’t look like this!

Still, one of the things my husband and I have always valued about the Mennonite church is the understanding that God speaks to us in Scripture, in our own prayer life, and also in community. Here it seemed the community was trying to say something, and I needed at least to listen.

I have never felt the movement of God’s Spirit so strongly.

As we continued to discern together, I went from not at all even thinking about pastoral ministry, to being willing to consider it, then curious, and then excited about a unique opportunity—to serve the church at a critical time of transition, to experience some new things for myself, and to learn and grow spiritually and personally through it all.

Would I be willing to serve part-time and continue teaching? the committee asked. Would some sort of team ministry be possible? They even had someone in mind for the other half of the team, but when that didn’t work out, one of the senior members on the search committee asked, would it be possible for me to take a leave of absence from the college and work as a full-time interim pastor?

So on the recommendation of the search committee, I asked for a leave of absence from the college and accepted the church’s call for what we all thought would be for the summer months and then the fall semester. The church would continue their search for a pastor, and I fully expected to be back to teaching at the college in January. Surely by that time, the church would have found a real pastor, I thought. I just didn’t know then that it would be me.

As it turned out, the church asked me to extend my interim ministry for another school semester. They then asked me to candidate for the regular pastoral position, I went through the ordination process, and now, as of this past Easter Sunday, I’ve been lead pastor at my church for 20 years!

In some ways I’ve had it easy—my church had mainly resolved any questions about women in ministry before I was called, and has been wonderfully supportive. But ministry has also been extremely challenging. I’ve dealt with the past sexual misconduct of a pastoral candidate, financial fraud by a member of the church against other members, difficult deaths including the loss of children and the still unsolved murder of a parishioner. As an associate once said to me, “I wish you some bumps along the way so you’ll know what it feels like”—and I’ve definitely had my share.

Yet through it all, I’ve also had a deep and persistent sense of God’s calling. I may have started as an accidental pastor, but it’s turned out to be so much more than that!

About Today's Contributor

April Yamasaki is a pastor and writer who has published numerous articles and several books, most recently Sacred Pauses: Spiritual Practices for Personal Renewal (Herald Press, February 2013). A third-generation Canadian of Chinese descent, April lives in Abbotsford, B.C., with her husband, Gary, who teaches biblical studies at Columbia Bible College. Visit her website where she blogs about spiritual practice, writing, reading, faith, and life at http://aprilyamasaki.com. Follow her on Twitter @SacredPauses, and you'll be entered to win a free copy of her book.

About the Women in Ministry Series The Women in Ministry Series is a collection of guest posts that aims to provide an alternative to the women in ministry debates by telling the stories of women in ministry and encourage women to explore their God-given callings.

Contributions Welcome
Contact Katherine at katherinepershey[at]gmail.com to pitch your post idea in 2-4 sentences. You can stay updated on the latest post each week by signing up for the weekly e-mail list.

Comment Policy
Everyone is welcome to leave a comment. However, this series takes for granted that women are called by God into every facet of ministry. This is not the place to debate that point and such comments will be removed. Women have been told “no” in far too many places. This is one place that is committed to saying “yes.”

More Information
For more about the comment policy, submitting your own story, or to sign up for the weekly e-mail list, go here.

Deeper Family: Something God Alone Can See

2013-05-09T10:02:00.001-05:00

This is a Deeper Family, not a Deeper Church. I’m charged to write about family, not the work I do as a congregational pastor.

But sometimes the church is a family.

Sometimes it’s a family in all the wrong ways, replete with dysfunction. Sometimes there are controlling personalities and melodramatic martyrs and generational warfare.

And sometimes there is tenderness and mutual care and the simple joy of shared meals – bread and wine in the sanctuary, potlucks in the fellowship hall.

Sometimes they really do know we are Christians by our love.

Continue reading here.

Guest Post: Bromleigh McCleneghan

2013-05-08T09:00:00.000-05:00

I met Bromleigh McCleneghan at a Collegeville Institute writing workshop in 2009. That same week I also met Lee Hull Moses. They were close friends working on a book together. We were all writing about parenting and theology and such, which is to say that we could have ended up being all weird and competitive toward each other. Rather, Bromleigh and Lee have become some of my closest friends and colleagues. They did indeed write a book together, and a fantastic one at that. I heartily endorsed Hopes and Fears: Everyday Theology for New Parents and Other Tired, Anxious People with these words:

Moses and McCleneghan have crafted a theology of family that is smart, faithful, and wonderfully expansive. There's a place for the how-to guides that cover the logistics of parenting. But there's also a place for Hopes and Fears, which reflects on the soul of parenting: the top of the bedside stack.

Leave a comment on this post for a chance to win a copy of the book. It makes an especially good Mother's Day gift!

* * * * *

Last weekend, I travelled to St. Paul, MN to spend a few days with one of my best friends. She’s recently relocated to the Midwest from New York, and this change removed the last obstacles of cost and distance that had kept us from an in-the-flesh visit over the past five years.

It was a fantastic weekend; Megan practices hospitality like nobody’s business, and she took me and another friend to the coolest restaurants, the best bookstores, the most interesting local theaters and museums, and the nicest spots for enjoying nature. We drank good beer, and nice wine, and ate long, leisurely meals, and stayed up talking into the night.

As we perused the shops of some trendy neighborhood, countless signs cajoled: “May 11th is Mother’s Day! Pick up something for your Mom!” A few of the displays were of those little gift books on mom-related themes, and coffee mugs and wall hangings pronouncing the owner “World’s Best Mom.” Many were really lovely; good gifts for my mom: eco-friendly household items, antique glass pieces. I texted my husband for his approval of several items. “Would she like the bamboo printed placemats?”

Though we were having a conversation, aided by the many wonders of the digital age, it struck me as strange that I was preparing for this “holiday” – whether one with origins in the nostalgic consumerism of Hallmark, or more nobly reminiscent of Julia Ward Howe’s “Mother’s Day for Peace” – several hundred miles away from my own children, from my own home.

This trip was far from the first I’d taken away from my husband and kids: I’d been to see my dying grandfather; been on ordination retreats as a participant, and confirmation retreats as a leader. I’d spent weeks in July in Minnesota, just north of the twin cities, working on my writing and forging collegial ties. I’ve been to California, and Austin, and Atlanta and North Carolina, leaving them behind, for better and worse. I weaned my youngest all in one go one summer; taking my pump with me, and wishing my beloved husband luck. It was remarkably more painful for me; I do not recommend going from five daily feedings to zero overnight. My breasts were huge and rock hard.

This weekend jaunt to see my friends, though, was the first time I had left them for a just-for-fun trip. I was not obligated to go, I just wanted to see my friends.

I got carded a bunch – asked to prove that I was of legal drinking age, and I was floored. This amused me. I am rapidly graying; I have not lost the “baby weight” I gained while carrying my “three year old.” In my mind, I am so obviously a mom. In my mind’s eye, I look like a mom. And not a teen mom, either, but a suburban, thirty-something mom.

But here I was, spending three days attending to a part of myself I don’t spend nearly enough time cultivating. Sharing drinks with women with whom I shared my first drinks ever; sharing a bed with friends I have considered as close as sisters, with whom I shared a bathroom and student housing for years. Talking of travels and love and books and politics and activism and writing and work, revisiting conversations I began with them when we were eighteen and were talking of these things as those just beginning to be adults.

I share all these things with Josh, my husband, and with my biological sisters, and with my friends who are local. But there was something particularly marvelous about seeing them again, about rekindling my love for these dear women, these dear friends.

In the list of identity markers I give, in introducing or describing myself to people, I tend to say “Mother, wife, pastor, writer.” I rarely say friend, though I have worked to cultivate friendships, though I would be lost without them. Why is that, I wonder?

It’s hard for me to hold all these parts of myself together sometimes. I don’t linger over dinner and a bottle of wine very often, because there’s usually a kid or two to go home to. I don’t always know how to talk about my children and my marriage to single friends, or those without kids.

Two things about this weekend were revelatory for me, though: first, my husband and children were happy to have me go. Josh knows I need to care for these other relationships, just as I know he needs (needs. Really.) to be able to talk fantasy football with his friends and give time to those connections. The girls missed me, as I did them, but they got special attention from their dad, a trip to the Frosty Penguin for ice cream on a school night, and a “late-night” adventure to pick me up from the airport. They were also relatively assured there would be a gift coming their way on my return. I didn’t feel guilty about going – and that surprised me. I thought I would feel bad abandoning them. But Josh is a great and fabulously competent parent, and I needed this. Rather than incessant, low-level guilt, I was relaxed and happy.

The second revelation was one uncovered in a book I read on the plane ride up (another joy of traveling alone: time to read interrupted only by easily ignored announcements by flight attendants!). Called In Praise of Love, the book is written by a French philosopher in dialogue with a cultural critic. I’ve been reading a lot about love for months for another project, and I’ve been carting around this slim volume for much of that time; on the ride up I cranked it out. The author, Alain Badiou, reminds readers that love is not simply about identifying with another, but about relating to an Other across difference. We love people who are not us, not the same as us. And that love, if it is really love, will bridge difference and endure trials.

I went up to Saint Paul a little worried. Would we still be friends after so long? Would we still be close, though our lives have gone in some diverging directions? Badiou prompted me to relax, and to remember that love endures across distance and difference. I’m a better mom when I remember this about love, when I am reassured, and can reassure my family about its truth. I can remind my children that I will always love them, even when I take a short trip away from them. My husband can show his love for me, by caring for our kids so I can have some time and space. My friends and I can still share love, even though things haven’t gone the way we once imagined. This is maybe what makes us a Christian family, the reminder that love is available in abundance, and is meant to be shared, in our little nuclear family, and beyond.

I’m still needling for a kid-designed card, and a husband-purchased bouquet come Sunday, but really, they’d be icing on the cake. This weekend was the best Mother’s Day gift ever.

After serving two United Methodist churches outside Chicago, and being ordained an Elder along the way, Bromleigh McCleneghan recently began as the Associate for Congregational Life at Rockefeller Memorial Chapel at the University of Chicago. She is a graduate of Boston University and the U of C. She and her husband Josh have two daughters, Fiona and Calliope.

(Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Hopes and Fears: Everyday Theology for New Parents and Other Tired, Anxious People.)

Ten on Tuesday

2013-05-07T21:21:00.000-05:00

1. The Kindle version of Any Day a Beautiful Change is on sale for $2.99 until May 17th. If you're so inclined to spread the word about that, I'd be much obliged.

2. I got my hair chopped yesterday, after showing the stylist (a former professional soccer player and current Crossfit trainer that I tipped a little ridiculously well) photographs of Carey Mulligan, Ginnifer Goodwin, and Michelle Williams. I thought it looked decent but my friends on Facebook made me feel like a million bucks with all the compliments. Maybe I didn't tip him so ridiculously after all. ;-)

3. I had to make a quick dinner tonight, and whipped together a meal so delicious I later googled it only to discover that it's something Alice Waters does, too. Whole wheat pasta mixed with rainbow chard that was sauteed in olive oil and garlic and braised in broth, a couple big chunks of herbed goat cheese melted into the hot pasta, plus salt and pepper to taste. Of course I'm the only one who ate that, because I'm the only one who likes cooked greens and the girls eat their noodles dry with grated parmesan. Whatever. I've mastered the art of making variations of a theme.

4. Even though I was working in my office all day I was still able to enjoy the beautiful day through my open window. The girls stopped to say hello after school.

5. The news from Cleveland just bowled me over. I can't even fathom.

6. Someone anonymously left a Derby Pie in the church parlor today. I had no idea what Derby Pie even is, but I found out: my favorite.

7. Ben and Juliette went to Ohio for the Jawbone Poetry Festival and May 4th Commemoration. It's my very favorite weekend to be in Kent, but I couldn't swing the trip this time. That said, I'm so glad that Genevieve and I had a weekend together. I hadn't realized how very little time we've spent together on our own. It was great. As it turns out, when she's not reacting to her big sister she is considerably less of a stinker. She did ask a few times "Where Daddy is? Where Ette is?", but for the most part I think she was just as happy to have uninterrupted Mama time.

8. Pop beads get an A+ from the Pershey family.

9. Elizabeth shared this picture of Gracie with the fish she caught on Facebook. (That sentence is really bothering me. The picture was shared on Facebook; the fish was not caught on Facebook.) Anyway, I laughed out loud and immediately thought: wouldn't it be funny to prank-tag someone as the fish? I commented accordingly. And wouldn't you know it, Elizabeth tagged the fish as yours truly. I guess I did sort of ask for it.

10. Don't forget to write about a beautiful change in your life and link-up here! You can join in anytime during the month of May. If you participated last year, all the better - you get to write about a different one. That's the thing about beautiful changes; when you start looking for them, they pop up where you least expect them.

Women in Ministry: Merely a Brush in the Hand of a Great Artist

2013-05-03T03:00:00.000-05:00

I'm just plain happy today. Though I would ultimately prefer to have a chance to sit down for a cup of coffee with my dear friend Suzie Lind - whom you may remember from my Open Letter to My Evangelical Friends - opening my blog to her today is pretty wonderful, too. Suzie is such a wise and gifted leader, and I am blessed by her friendship and blessed by her words. I know you will be, too.

I walked up the stairs of the retreat center nestled back in the quiet neighborhood surrounded by trees. With each stone step I asked God to help me with my words and give me listening ears. The elders invited each of the pastors to their meetings, one by one over the course of a few months. Being second up, I didn’t think to ask the first guy how it went. I knew they wanted to check in with us and hear an update from our ministry, but beyond that I wasn’t sure. Was there a problem? Were they concerned about any of my teaching?

Upon entering the room, I was immediately greeted by warm smiles and hugs. Seven men, all of them older than me, and I was keenly aware most of them view me with a father’s heart. Having just come from dinner with my own family and tucking my kids into bed before running out into the night, I sat down relieved to catch my breath and enjoy some light hearted conversation.

The questions then proceeded.

“How are you doing?”

“How is your marriage?”

“Are you enjoying ministry?”

“What challenges are you facing?

“What is the best thing about ministry right now?”

“How can we help you?”

“How can we encourage the men to support the spiritual goals the women have?”

At the end of our time together, they gathered around me. One laying a hand on top of my head, one on each of my shoulders and they each began to pray. They prayed God would fill me with His spirit and that I would keep my eyes on Him. They prayed for me to be brave and to walk in my calling with confidence and hope and they gave thanks for me.

I left the meeting so grateful, loved well, appreciated, and empowered with a real sense of freedom to serve the way God made me. I then began to pray for the many pastors and ministry leaders I know who do not receive anything close to this from their elders. I was aware what I had just received was good, it was how God meant for elders to lead and sadly, it was unusual.

----

You could say the road into ministry, discovering my calling and much of who I am was completely accidental.

It began with a part-time administrative job needed to supplement our income and then two years later, the women’s pastor of our church resigned so she and her husband could begin a house church. Our elders had no intention of replacing her because we were beginning to focus the church on developing solid men. There was this conviction that as men go, so does the rest of the family. Passive men who rejected their responsibility as servant-leaders were identified as a problem in our culture and our church was going to be about building strong men who in turn led strong families that women are obviously a part of.

I didn’t disagree. But I knew the effort was incomplete. Women still needed shepherding, leading, a vision for their own spiritual growth and equipping for the lives God has called each of us to live. What initially began as an effort to keep the peace at church and help women continue with their existing gatherings, turned into something I never would have anticipated.

To my surprise, love for these women began to grow along with a desire to see them grow and accomplish what God had called them to do. Ideas developed in my mind for how a women’s ministry could go beyond the stereotypes of doilies, flowers and surfacey gatherings to a movement of women who love Jesus and others.

I envisioned a community of women who were raw, authentic and brave enough to talk about the messiness of life. A stirring to see women go deeper in their understanding of scriptures and theology would awaken me in the night, prompting me to write and fueled my teaching. So I began to lead, teach (something I NEVER thought I would do) and write about Jesus, His word and His movement among us.

Occasionally my circle of influence reaches beyond women but it doesn’t matter much to me. This conviction about women being gifted and called to ministry is founded not only in scripture but also by the dust of the Rabbi and His grace in my own life. The Creator of the Universe has invited me into His story. My gifts and calling contribute to being merely a brush in the hand of a great Artist. When He thinks I will be useful He is the one who calls me out and on to the canvas. Who and what I am called to is insignificant compared to the One who calls.

About Today's Contributor

Suzie Lind is the Women’s Pastor at King’s Harbor Church in Torrance, CA. At any given moment, and “in” just about every moment, she is teacher, mom, wife, leader, speaker, student, diaper changer, and writer. Her joys, gleanings and moments of sheer lunacy are birthed out of all these roles. Her greatest joy is soaking up the truths and revelations of God’s word and sharing them with others through teaching Bible Study and writing on her blog, Hemmed In.

Suzie lives in San Pedro with her husband Steve and four boys, Jason (12), Silas (9), Judah (7) and Nathan (almost 2). They also have a dog, a girl named Marley.

Twitter: @hemmedin
Facebook: suzieblind

About the Women in Ministry Series

The Women in Ministry Series is a collection of guest posts that aims to provide an alternative to the women in ministry debates by telling the stories of women in ministry and encourage women to explore their God-given callings.

Contributions Welcome
Contact Katherine at katherinepershey[at]gmail.com to pitch your post idea in 2-4 sentences. You can stay updated on the latest post each week by signing up for the weekly e-mail list.

Comment Policy
Everyone is welcome to leave a comment. However, this series takes for granted that women are called by God into every facet of ministry. This is not the place to debate that point and such comments will be removed. Women have been told “no” in far too many places. This is one place that is committed to saying “yes.”

More Information
For more about the comment policy, submitting your own story, or to sign up for the weekly e-mail list, go here.

In Celebration of the Century

2013-05-02T16:15:00.000-05:00

I've been having, by my standards, a glamorous day: this morning I caught the Metra into the city for a meeting at the offices of the Christian Century. I've been privileged to be part of an informal clergy group that's been meeting to talk about the Century and its strengths and weaknesses and role as the flagship publication of the mainline church. Today's meeting was the culmination of the project, but the first at the office, the first with the editors.

Even though I've written nineteen (!) articles for the Century - mostly online, but a few for print publication, too - and even though I've met most of the editors in other contexts, I was totally geeking out about this meeting. Indeed, I instagrammed a picture of their main entrance. I was too chicken to get close enough for a good shot and instead stood back and pretended to be checking something on my iPad. And then during introductions, I was so nervous I am fairly sure people thought I was either totally over-caffeinated or just plain socially inept.

The Christian Century is, as far as I'm concerned, it. I've always been a magazine lover. I even spent one semester as a magazine journalism major before retreating back to the liberal arts of English and Religion. I started reading the Century occasionally during seminary, and mailing in my subscription postcard was literally one of the first things I did when I started my first call. I read a lot of stuff, but I don't know that there is any other print source that has had a more formative effect on me than the Christian Century. It is my guide for pastoral ministry, and the reason it is so good at doing this is that it does not actually try to be a guide for pastoral ministry. Rather, it publishes articles about all sorts of things - food and politics and theology and lectionary commentaries and poetry and interesting books and so on and so forth - all of which are part of life in the church, life as a pastor, because we are generalists. I don't know if I would have grasped the wonderfully long intellectual leash I have as a pastor if not for the guidance of this magazine.

I don't know how helpful it is for one of the consulting clergy members to simply gush, but that's how I roll. When I love something, I love something, and I love the Christian Century. But even more importantly, I trust it. I, who occasionally have issues with authority, can be a fiercely loyal person when I encounter good authority.

Count me in as a lifetime subscriber.

Any May a Beautiful Change, Revisited

2013-05-01T03:00:00.000-05:00

Women in Ministry: Phoebe After All

2013-04-26T02:00:00.000-05:00

Rev. Christine A. Smith is a gifted writer, pastor, and encourager; in addition to her work as a pastor, she has been supporting fellow women in ministry through her blog, Shepastor. Today she shares her call story.

I feel a strong connection to God’s word spoken to Jeremiah, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I have appointed you a prophet to the nations." Jer 1:5 (NASB). Before marriage, my mother almost became a nun. Upon leaving the convent, she prayed that the Lord would call one of her children. I believe that I am that child. My mom fondly recalls that during her pregnancy with me, she had a dream that her fraternal grandmother told her that she would have a girl and that the girl should be named, “Phoebe.” Although my mom forgot about the dream and instead named me, “Christine,” the dream had profound implications.

According to Romans 16:1, Phoebe was a servant/leader in the church. It is my belief that the dream foreshadowed God’s calling upon my life. My parents instilled in each of their children the importance of living lives pleasing to Almighty God, a good education and becoming responsible, respectful, honest, people. My parents’ teaching helped me to develop a strong Christian faith that is an integral part of my vision for life and ministry.

Although I was raised Catholic, through a series of events, I ended up attending church with a Baptist friend. At the age of fifteen I joined church and was baptized. By the age of sixteen, I was working with the Christian Education department, helping to design and display bulletin boards; write and direct Easter and Christmas programs, singing in the choir and working as an assistant teacher.

At the age of sixteen, God spoke to my heart and called me to preach. Praise God when I went to my pastor, he did not discourage me because I am a woman. I was initially uncomfortable with the idea, but my pastor assured me that he would pray with and for me and that the Lord would lead me in the way that I should go. About a year later, I preached my initial sermon and was licensed in my home church.

After college, I entered seminary and earned the Master of Divinity degree. Two aspects of my seminary training helped shape my ministry, (1) My work as a research assistant in the Bible Department and (2) My work as an intern in the Black Women in Church and Society Internship Program. In the BWCS program, I worked with homeless women, helping them to get food and shelter. I also worked as a student counselor in an “At Risk” youth program in Atlanta, GA.

As I grew in the ministry, I realized that God was calling me to become a pastor. It was not my first choice or desire, if I am honest. The “call,” however, is not something one chooses – it chooses you! Like Jacob wrestled with the angel, I wrestled with God about the ministry. Truth be told, I simply wanted to go to school, get a decent job, get married, have children and live happily ever after. God had another plan. While I did go to school, get a “decent” job, get married and have children, God also called me to serve as a pastor, leader, author and blogger! Like a beautiful gift carefully packaged, God “packages us” and allows life to slowly unwrap the layers until the gifts inside emerge. My dream was exchanged for God’s. In God’s dream, I have discovered the true desires of my heart. I am Phoebe after all!

About This Week's Contributor

A native of Akron, Ohio, the Reverend Christine A. Smith accepted Jesus Christ as her personal savior at the age of fifteen. She answered a call to the Gospel Ministry and was licensed to preach in the Tabernacle Baptist Church of Akron, Ohio at age seventeen. She holds a Bachelor of Science in Education Degree, specializing in Learning Disabilities and Developmental Handicaps (1987) from the University of Akron. She holds a Masters of Divinity from the Interdenominational Theological Center, Morehouse School of Religion in Atlanta, Georgia, specializing in Systematic Theology and Women’s Studies (1990). In 1993 Rev. Smith joined the Olivet Institutional Baptist Church in Cleveland, Ohio under the pastorate of the Reverend Dr. Otis Moss, Jr., and was ordained to the Gospel Ministry in 1995. She served Olivet as Minister of Christian Education for three years. Rev. Smith was featured in the African American Pulpit as one of the “Twenty to Watch” (Winter 2001-2002 issue, Judson Press).

In January 2006, Rev. Smith became the pastor of the Covenant Baptist Church, Wickliffe, Ohio. She holds the distinction of becoming the first female Pastor of Covenant, the first African-American Pastor of Covenant and the second female Baptist pastor in the Greater Cleveland Area (of a mainline denomination - American Baptist). She currently serves as President of the Board of Trustees of the Cleveland Baptist Association as well as “Executive Leader” of the Association, while it is without an Executive Minister. In 2009, Rev. Smith wrote and successfully secured a grant from the National Minister’s Council (ABC/USA) to begin, “Women Together in Ministry of Greater Cleveland.” WTIM is a network designed to connect, encourage and support women in ministry. She also produces a weekly blog, “Shepastor,” (http://shepastor.blogspot.com) a site dedicated to providing encouragement, guidance, words of wisdom and instruction to female clergy. In 2012, the Cleveland Plain Dealer featured an article written by Rev. Smith entitled, “Being persistent in pursuit of social justice,” in the March 3, 2012 Messages of Faith column.

In February, 2013, Rev. Smith’s first book: Beyond the Stained Glass Ceiling: Equipping and Encouraging Female Pastors (Judson Press) was released. Rev. Smith is the proud wife of Aristide Smith, Jr., and blessed mother of three wonderful children: two sons - Aristide III and Caleb and a daughter, Aris Christine. Truly, God has been good to the Reverend Christine A. Smith. For His loving kindness and tender mercies, she simply says, “To God be the glory for the things He has done!”

Ten on Tuesday, Thursday Edition

2013-04-25T10:33:00.004-05:00

I was going to write a Ten on Tuesday, and then, well, you know. It's been a week.

1. I pine for the golden era in which my back only went out every other year or so. I'm up to roughly quarterly. This is not good. What is good is that I finally know how to knock it out quickly: a muscle relaxant and a prescription painkiller. That said, this method also knocks me out; I sleep a ton, and then walk around feeling totally groggy for the next day. I have absolutely no concept of how anyone could take prescription painkillers recreationally. So very unpleasant.

2. I'll write more about my trip to Springfield for Advocacy Day at some point, but for now, given how deeply disappointed I am about the infuriating setbacks in the campaign for common sense gun legislation, let's just look at the pretty ceiling of the capitol building.

3. I think I might write a fuller review at some point, but for now I'll just say that I'm disappointed with the Spark Story Bible. My main beef is aesthetic; it is neither beautifully written nor beautifully illustrated. Juliette likes it, but I don't think it will grow with her the way the Jesus Storybook Bible can.

4. Speaking of Jesusy children's books, my last contribution to A Deeper Family was a list of our favorites.

5. Speaking of contributions, I had the honor and delight of writing a guest post for Simple Mom. Simple Mom is my favorite and best website, and I'm a total fangirl about Tsh Oxenreider, so this was hugely exciting for me. And, I liked the piece I wrote, a basic introduction to Lectio Divina.

6. Also speaking of contributions, I have two pieces in the current issue of the Christian Century. I wrote a brief reflection on the books I read for preaching, and a nice big fat review of Rachel Srubas's The Girl Got Up and Glennon Doyle Melton's Carry On, Warrior. The review isn't posted yet, and may well be subscription-only.

7. When my mama was here a couple weeks ago, we visited the Ernest Hemmingway museum, which includes the Oak Park house where he was born. Juliette came along, and only once during the seventy-minute extremely detailed tour of the house did she quietly whisper, "When is this going to be over?"

8. Our church rummage sale - which happens twice a year! - is mind-bogglingly enormous. They broke the sales record this year, raking in $38,000. There's only about six hours of shopping. Proceeds support all sorts of wonderful ministries, locally and globally. And, though the sale just ended last night at eight 'o clock, you would hardly know this morning.

9. I also mean to go back and write more about The Great Library Extravaganza of Spring Break 2013, but for now, one shot from the utterly wonderful Fountaindale Public Library in Bolingbrook. This sign hangs in the well-appointed craft area.

10. This page of I Wanted to Know All About God took my breath away. I miss my grandmothers.

Women in Ministry Series: She, of the Beautiful Hands

2013-04-19T07:40:00.001-05:00

Kelli Woodford's meditation on her grandmother's hands reminds me of the words of Isaiah: How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace. This is an extraordinary essay - luminous even, and with lovely photographs, too. Please note there is a reference to miscarriage.

You can never tell from which direction it will come, y'know? The grace.

Monday was one of those that fit the stereotype. Spilled milk and tears on pillows and toilet seats that failed to be lifted. Glass that shattered at the breakfast table while I was in the shower and that not one of the children decided to clean up before I came downstairs and discovered it the sharp way. It was a day of second guessing this home-schooling-thing. This staying-home-with-the-children-thing. This whole thing.

But Tuesday I took a trip with my mother to see my ailing grandparents 3 hours away. She wanted to greet me upon arrival, but her back is so bent she can only see her shoes. She bustles about the kitchen anyway (well, "bustling" is I think what she would call it, although it is really much slower than constitutes the proper sense of the word), asking who wants a Pepsi and would I like ice? Seven children, twenty-two grands, seventeen great-grands (and counting) does that do a person, I guess. She's so very used to it.

Mom and I tell her to sit. That we've got it. We've come to help them get dinner.

And we stay 2 hours. There are albums brought forth from the back recesses of some dark upstairs closet. We flip through black and white photos of grandpa in his military uniform, old girlfriends on the beach, and babies. Lots and lots of babies. We had seven, you know, they remind me over and over, because of course, I have seven, too. Somewhere between the turning of pages and the recalling of names long since forgotten, it hits me that they not only have these stories, but in some sense,

they are these stories.

They are the years of toddlers a-splash in the baby pool. They are the moving across the country to take the promotion and then moving back shortly thereafter because it just wasn't home. They are the making love and the making lunch, the ear infections and the algebra homework, the humdrum all bound up in the everyday life that brought them such a rich return. All these sixty-four years of together they have spent. The days of teacher conferences and everybody home for Sunday dinners slowly gave way to college papers and the house staying clean for more than an hour at a time.

The years, they pass in seconds through their eyes and their lips.

She reaches over to take her glass. And I notice her hands.

They are skeletal, skin sagging, purple in the valleys of age. But I see them wiping fevered brows and slicing apples for her famous pies over many a Thanksgiving Eve and turning socks right-side-out and smoothing fresh sheets on a bed abandoned for the day. They are the ones responsible for the polish that winks at you from the surface of the coffee table and the flawless, smudgeless hallway mirror where I used to stand and squint at my battered skin as a teenager, wishing it as flawless as the reflecting surface. Their strength has held so many babies, but they have also felt their own weakness as two pregnancies ended by watching the lifeless form afloat in the unholy waters surrounded by the toilet seat.

These are beautiful hands.

We entwine fingers, the young and the old. I gently draw them close as we say a misty goodbye. It very well could be the last time. I breathe air heavy with holy as much as with grief. For their lives, nearing their close, have been well spent. Just as that virgin mother has stood peaceful over their kitchen table all these years, they have lived many sacred breakings of bread, spilling of love with the wine. It is the close of a season;

they have ministered well.

And on the long drive home I look at my own hands. What beauty they bring in all my dailies. What memories they make and what nightmares they survive. I see vestiges of her service, even some similarity of form, in these hands. Mine wear a scratch from the Monday morning glass. My skin, though wrinkled, doesn't sag tiredly around the edges of bone. The muscle tissue is still strong, firm. Overworked, even.

There are days of plenty and days of scarce, and we never know, do we? which will it be today?

I watch the last of the day's light slowly bleed out of the sky. Purples and brown and orange, undaunted. They don't know they are the color of a bruise, of the dying of day. I think it's appropriate, somehow, to mourn the death before me as I celebrate the life that was. The lingerings of light in one final hurrah from the triumphant sky.

A long, slow goodbye.

And before the first star winks or the moon's tresses gild, that bony, conclusive finger of sunny-day-remains shoots up from its source, now beneath the horizon.

Grace coming from the direction of the setting sun's last ray.

About Today's Contributor

Kelli Woodford scratches at words in the corners of her day. If they make sense it is more in spite of her than because of her. And because of that Mighty Mercy who is the greatest Word Weaver of all. She blogs somewhat regularly at Chronicles of Grace and can be found on facebook and twitter.

About the Women in Ministry Series
The Women in Ministry Series is a collection of guest posts that aims to provide an alternative to the women in ministry debates by telling the stories of women in ministry and encourage women to explore their God-given callings.

Contributions Welcome: Contact Katherine at katherinepershey[at]gmail.com to pitch your post idea in 2-4 sentences. You can stay updated on the latest post each week by signing up for the weekly e-mail list.

Comment Policy: Everyone is welcome to leave a comment. However, this series takes for granted that women are called by God into every facet of ministry. This is not the place to debate that point and such comments will be removed. Women have been told “no” in far too many places. This is one place that is committed to saying “yes.”

More Information
For more about the comment policy, submitting your own story, or to sign up for the weekly e-mail list, go here.

Lament of the Johnny-Come-Lately

2013-04-18T14:47:00.002-05:00

I've been involved enough with the campaign to enact stronger gun legislation that several people have expressed sympathy to me that not one but two imperfect yet far-better-than-the-alternative policies were voted down yesterday. The United States Senate did not get the sixty votes needed to approve of a watered-down background checks law. The Illinois House, which has been mandated by a federal court to adopt a Concealed Carry policy, voted down a strong one that included some extremely reasonable considerations, such as giving local law enforcement some input as to who is eligible to carry a weapon in public, and prohibiting guns from bars.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried when I heard the news.

It's not that I think stronger gun laws will prevent every single mass shooting or dramatically decrease the horrific violence in Chicago. I have said all along that I think legislation is one piece of a larger picture, which is the transformation of a violent culture. We are neither strengthening the law nor changing the culture if the NRA still has a tight enough grip on the political sphere that legislation overwhelmingly supported by Americans can still be caricatured, misrepresented, and shot down.

This would be funny if it didn't ring so true. I'd link to the other once that captures it but it's a bit salty for this family-friendly blog.

I don't have the right to be frustrated and defeated, not when I am a total Johnny-Come-Lately to this advocacy work. I certainly haven't earned any sympathy. Attending several rallies and vigils this year, including Chicago Crosswalk, I've heard many family members who have lost loved ones speak. I am humbled by their grief and commitment. I am particularly thinking of the man whose son was shot and killed in 1997, and has stood up at countless events, year after year, to beg for common sense reforms. Year after year after year.

That's the man I'm crying for. And courageous, eloquent Gabby Giffords; if you read anything, read this. And the families who lost loved ones in all those places that used to just be places, but now have become shorthand for mass shootings.

And the families who haven't lost loved ones yet, but will, because people who can't buy a gun from a licensed dealer because they can't pass a background check can still buy a shotgun on Craigslist with nary a question asked.

Crying, and praying, and not quitting.

I Will Trust In Him and Not Be Afraid (#ItIsEnough)

2013-04-14T12:21:00.000-05:00

Nearly every week, at the end of the worship service, our congregation sings these words:

Surely it is God who saves me,
I will trust in him and not be afraid.
For the Lord is my stronghold and my sure defense,
and he will be my Savior.

I think these are powerful and subversive words. We call it our "sung blessing," but I think it is really more of a confession of faith. It echoes the confidence of Romans 8:

I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

It isn't that we aren't still vulnerable. We are. To be saved by God is not to be exempt from suffering. It's just that the suffering will never have the final word. No matter what happens to us, we belong to God and cannot be evicted from his presence or robbed of his love.

When you know this - when you trust God no matter what happens - you don't have to be afraid anymore. Not even AR-15s can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

A few weeks ago, during a meeting with our state representative, one of my fellow gun violence prevention advocates spoke eloquently, knowledgeably, and passionately about our shared commitment to this campaign. "We are afraid," she added.

And I paused inside. Maybe it was all those Sundays singing that I will trust in him and not be afraid, but I thought: no, let's not do this out of fear.

Fear is an incredible motivator. Indeed, I'm pretty sure it is a significant part of what is fueling the frenzy on the "other side": fear of the bad guy, fear of the tyrannical government, fear that they/we are trying to take their guns away.

Fear has its place - you know, fight or flight and all. But I'm not so sure about the long-term efficacy or the theological coherence of a movement rooted in fear.

Guns scare me. The possibility of what happened in Newtown happening in my town terrifies me. I am devastated that the youth in nearby Chicago live in very real fear that they will not live through their adolescence.

And yet: I will trust in him and not be afraid.

I will keep advocating for sensible gun laws not because I am afraid, but because life is far too precious for more than thirty thousand people to die in the United States from gun violence each year (and yes, suicides count.)

I refuse to give any more power to our Moloch by offering him my fear.

Women in Ministry Series: Conversations from Courage Road

2013-04-12T02:30:00.000-05:00

Discerning a call to ministry can be a disorienting and intimidating experience. Kristin Lucas captures the confusion, excitement, and grace of vocational discernment... with a little help from her husband.

My anxiety was palpable as I stared out the passenger seat window at the dark road before us. Orange streetlights whizzed by every few seconds, and we passed a dingy old Waffle House, where a few lonely people sat at the counter. As we merged onto the wide highway, I wrung my fingers in my lap and opened my mouth a few times before the words actually came.

I need to tell you something, and I need you to tell me whether or not I’m crazy.

He turned his eyes ever so slightly toward me, intrigued. We’d been married for seven years, but still, this felt hard. He nodded and I continued, taking a deep breath.

I told him how I sensed God doing something. Saying something. And how even though I wasn’t totally clear on what He was saying, or why, I thought that maybe God was calling me into ministry. Into leadership. That maybe God was preparing me to be a youth pastor...

(The entire monologue, every few sentences, was littered with the disclaimer I know this sounds crazy.)

Once I finished, he looked forward, quiet for a moment, and directed the car to our exit. We sat at the red light at the end of the ramp for several seconds as he collected his thoughts, turned to me, and spoke decidedly.

You’re not crazy, you know. Not even close. It makes sense. You’d be perfect.

---

Six months after that conversation, I was the newly appointed youth pastor of our church. And I was terrified.

I’d never done ministry before - at least, not vocationally - and it was strange.

I’d spent the previous two years as a full-time stay-at-home-mom to my two young daughters, living an unscheduled and unhurried life. Things changed rapidly. All of a sudden, we had to juggle babysitters and preschool and sick children and cleaning the house and cooking and coffee dates and staff meetings and doctors appointments and weeklong trips to the beach with teenagers and retreats and so much more while we both worked jobs we loved.

We were stretched. Things felt out of kilter as we tried to figure out how to balance our family life with another job added to the mix - a job with particularly odd hours and a high relational cost. It was frustrating at times, and we learned some hard lessons about sacrificing for one another - and the importance doing so joyfully.

On Sunday mornings, when I would leave for church in the wee hours and he would arrive later with our two precious girls - having woken them and fed them and dressed them in their favorite “fancy dresses” alone - I experienced pangs of guilt as I wondered if I was hurting our family. While God was doing some truly amazing things among the youth I worked with, and while I felt more energized and affirmed in my position than any other job I’d had, it felt like a lot to ask of my husband, somehow. I started to wonder if this was right. Did God really want us to live this season of our lives this way? Did I need to be at home?

And quietly, I began to ask myself the same questions that haunted me at the beginning. Is this right? Am I called? Am I crazy?

---

Those thoughts had badgered me for a few weeks when we found ourselves once again driving on that dark road with the Waffle House and the whizzing orange lights. I don’t know what it is about that road, but it seems to give me courage.

Would it be better if I were at home with the girls and everything became easy again?

He looked over at me, startled, and remained quiet for a long time.

He didn’t answer directly, but reminded me of something I’d forgotten - the story of his grandparents, and how for their entire married life they’d ministered together as pastors in small, out-of-the-way country churches, where God used them in the lives of countless people.

He spoke of his grandma, a woman I know and love. A woman who raised nine children in parsonages all over eastern Ohio and who still somehow managed life as a pastor. A woman who today still takes calls, performs marriages, presides over funerals. A woman who shaped my husband’s life in undeniable ways.

And then he turned his eyes toward me and looked at me good.

What you are doing - it is important.You are needed, and you are right where you belong. What kind of husband would I be if I weren’t willing to make sacrifices for my wife so that she could follow God’s lead?

I felt something settle deep within.

Oh, and by the way, you’re not crazy. You’re called.

And with that, he reached over and took my hand and, together, we continued down our dark road of courage.

About Today's Contributor
Kristin Lucas is wife to Ben and mom to two hilarious little blonde princesses, Molly (6) and Caroline (2). She is youth pastor to a fantastic group of teenagers and freelance writer in her spare time. She and her family live in Atlanta, Georgia with their golden retriever, Livy, and a ridiculous amount of pollen this time of year. Connect with her on twitter (@KAL_lelujah) and browse around her blog (www.kristinlucaswrites.com), where she writes about all things life and faith.

About the Women in Ministry Series
The Women in Ministry Series is a collection of guest posts that aims to provide an alternative to the women in ministry debates by telling the stories of women in ministry and encourage women to explore their God-given callings.

Contributions Welcome: Contact Katherine at katherinepershey[at]gmail.com to pitch your post idea in 2-4 sentences. You can stay updated on the latest post each week by signing up for the weekly e-mail list.

Comment Policy: Everyone is welcome to leave a comment. However, this series takes for granted that women are called by God into every facet of ministry. This is not the place to debate that point and such comments will be removed. Women have been told “no” in far too many places. This is one place that is committed to saying “yes.”

More Information
For more about the comment policy, submitting your own story, or to sign up for the weekly e-mail list, go here.

The Cat Dress

2013-04-04T12:15:00.002-05:00

Okay. When you've decided not to buy any new clothes for a year but you're out to lunch with your dear friend and you happen to duck into the Loft to try on dresses, just for kicks, and they have a dress with cats on it in your size for $12.88 on the clearance rack, you buy it.

Happy Easter, 2013

I couldn't wait to revamp it for work: a pink scarf, cowboy boots, and a thrift shop corduroy blazer.

I'm off to the Woman's Society Luncheon in style. :)

Ten on Tuesday

2013-03-26T21:23:00.001-05:00

1. We went to the Evanston Public Library yesterday, just for kicks. It's a good hour's drive, but well worth it. It was fun to see a new part of Chicagoland, and I love visiting libraries. We hit the Western Springs library today and now I'm hoping we can keep it up throughout the week. Not quite a warm beach vacation, but Spring Break/ Holy Week Library Tour 2013 isn't too shabby.

2. My friend Suzanne had created her own beautiful rendering of the equality symbol, so I was duly inspired to borrow one of Juliette's markers. I wait and hope.

3. The bible study I lead at church has been studying John all year. We move really slowly, having great conversations along the way. We're enjoying the John for Everyone study by N.T. Wright - it's a far better resource than the derivative study guide we started out using. When we finish in late May, I'll have read two of the four gospels this year. I'm thinking that I should read Luke and Matthew in the months to come, in preparation for my Jesus Year - I'm turning 33 on July 13th.

4. Josh Garrels is giving away his entire discography on Noisetrade, in support of World Vision, but I'm pretty sure the deal ends tomorrow.

5. I'm reading Cheryl Strayed's Wild. I'm entertained by it, I guess, but I'm not especially liking it. There is a line in the book that struck me as so strange and poorly conceived that I'm still pondering it, chapters later.

6. We have a cabinet right by our door, and it is, unfortunately, a bit of a catch-all. The good thing is that it (mostly) saves our kitchen counters from being catch-alls, but it nevertheless gets out of hand. I had a vague notion that there was probably some valuable stuff mixed in with all the plastic barrettes and expired coupons, as well as a specific hunch that our Costco rebate was buried in there somewhere. So, today I pulled every last item out of my side of the cabinet, and started sorting. I did indeed find not one but two Costco rebates worth more than $30, both still thankfully valid. I also found the weirdest, most inexplicable thing: two homeowner's policy renewal letters. Um, what now? Apparently when Ben changed our policy last year, the cancellation didn't go through. I manage all our bills through automatic billpay, and since we still had an auto insurance policy with this company, I didn't think to double-check the amount. We have been paying for two homeowner's insurance policies for the last year. I called the company in a panic but was assured that all I have to do is fax the proof of the other policy over and we will be refunded from that date. Finding a five dollar bill in my spring jacket is enough to make me rejoice; I essentially found $830 in our junk drawer this morning.

BOOYAH.

And, also, we probably need to up our communication about domestic management issues. But nevertheless: BOOYAH.

7. When I type "booyah" on my iPad, it autocorrects to BOOYAH. As well it should.

8. As one who married on her twenty-second birthday, I thoroughly appreciated this piece by Karen Swallow Prior about marrying young. I particularly like the idea of approaching marriage as the cornerstone of one's adulthood, not as the capstone. It's not prescriptive, though - just a nice counterbalance to the prevailing wisdom that youthfulness is detrimental to matrimony.

9. One of the reasons I wanted to get a cat (or, you know, cats, as it turned out):

The other reason is purring in my lap right now.

10. I've been feeling a little overwhelmed - okay, a lot overwhelmed - by all the Horrible Things lately. There are so many Horrible Things. I felt such grief at Crosswalk, especially as we made the final leg of the journey to Cook County Hospital where so many people are rushed with gunshot wounds. It is hard to find hope. I'm yearning for resurrection. This afternoon I listened to the Innocence Mission version of "What a Wonderful World." Karen Paris sings it so sorrowfully, and that seems just right.

Goodnight.

Women in Ministry: Lady Gaga, Vocation, and Incarnation

2013-03-22T01:30:00.000-05:00

I am so grateful to Corein Brown for her willingness to share her experience of being Catholic, female, and ordained. It is a joy to join in the voices affirming her call.

Lady Gaga reverberates through the space of my small apartment, her rhythm my glad tambourine, her lyrics my psalms, her voice God’s proclamation.

To her music, just weeks prior to my ordination, I adorn my coffee table with the things I love. She alone accompanies me as I transform my table into an altar, my little apartment into the house of God.

On my coffee table I lay my grandmother’s worn rosary beads, a woman of immense faith who I always wanted to meet. There I lay the images of the Saint John’s Bible, the word of God manifested in art that will be proclaimed at my ordination. And there I lay a book of Martin Luther King Jr.’s sermons, both convicting me of my failings as a Christian and citizen and proclaiming a hope of who I might be, if I just believe in God’s power within me. And scattered around the table are the trinkets from my dad, the champion of my life – the one who has always called me to follow the rhythm of my life.

And there alone, with Lady Gaga calling me in the background, I dance around my coffee table turned altar. I dance in praise of all that brought me here – the voices of encouragement from family, friends, and strangers; the countless late nights spent writing papers in seminary and for tears shed in CPE; the women and men who first opened the doors of ordination to me.

And there alone, I dance to drown out the words that held me back. I dance against the words of my own imagination and those spoken to me, the voices that told me I could not do this, the voices that called me appalling. I dance to shake off the memories of my beloved childhood faith that would no longer welcome me to the table.

Catholic, female, and steps away from ordination, all I could do was wait, pray and dance for what lay ahead in the next few weeks and for the rest of my life as I accepted this calling.

So much of life is spent wondering and wandering, listening and shouting, walking and running, as we come face to face with the terrifying mystery of vocation and call. On rare occasions there are moments of clarity, moments that feel like falling in love, moments of peace and moments of bravery when we are able to gather up all our beauty and brokenness and proclaim, “We are called”

It took all the courage, all the bravery, and all the wild dancing my tired legs could muster to take those final steps to ordination, to kneel before my bishop, to lay prostrate as my community invoked the prayers of the saints, to accept the hands of my parents, my brother, and my friends as they surrounded me in prayer.

After the excitement and celebration of my ordination came to an end and my family flew back home I returned to my tiny apartment. Alone once again, I laid out all the ordination cards and gifts on my coffee table. In silence, I sat down, brokenhearted, heavy with an unsettling feeling about what exactly I had just chosen to commit my life to.

While I had felt certain, and continue to feel certain, about my call to ordination I was unprepared for the brokenness. I was unprepared to feel the weight of the church’s torn history enter my soul. I was not ready to accept that I was not only ordained into service of God and God’s people but that I was also ordained, forever tied and convicted, into the scandal of a divided church that continues to exclude and fight in the name of the Gospel while forgetting the Good News.

As the months have passed it has become easier to ignore this brokenness, this scandal and consequently this beautiful call. On evenings and Sundays, I am Deacon Corein or Asst. Pastor Corein but the rest of the week I am just Corein. I separate my identities and protect myself from the questions of how I can be Catholic, female, and ordained and protect myself from possible confrontation and worse yet, rejection.

Recently, in the silence of my apartment, in the face of my cluttered coffee table where lotion, coasters, and notebooks have long replaced the gifts of ordination and symbols of my faith, I realized that I was denying my call, failing to incarnate God’s voice in my flesh. I was letting the disintegration of my two identities replace the possibility of integration and the embodiment of this call.

I am discovering I need of so much more courage, bravery, wild dancing and grace in order to set out on the difficult work of incarnating and embodying God’s call, to integrate into my daily life and my very being this call and to imagine what this call might ask of me in the days and years to come.

I am mustering up all my bravery, dancing around my coffee table, and imagining that there is possibly something so much more within my broken call, within this divided church I am called to lead, within the beautiful faith of my childhood that stands apart from me today.

Since my ordination there are fewer moments of clarity and peace and more moments where fear masquerades as courage, but I am opening up to the daily opportunities to gather up all my beauty and all my brokenness and proclaim, “I am called. We are called.” I am asked to put flesh to this call, to embrace what it means to be ordained into a broken church: to be a person who transparently exposes her beauty and brokenness and believes it is an essential part of healing and ushering forth God’s grace in this world.

We are all called to take the still small voice, that intangible feeling that God is asking something of us, and set out on the difficult, everyday work of putting flesh to that voice, incarnating that feeling, and of course, dancing.

About Today's Contributor: By day, Corein Brown is the Research and Communications Associate at the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical and Cultural Research. By night (and weekends) she serves as a transitional deacon at Spirit of Hope Catholic Community, TOCCUSA. When at home, she enjoys life with her community members and navigating what it means to be a good neighbor. In her free time, she enjoys thrifting, convincing bars to sell gluten free beer, biking in 30 degree temps (thank you Minnesota spring), playing three chords on her mandolin, and kayaking (when the lakes aren’t frozen). She also serves on the board of Fidelia’s Sisters and the Franciscan Community Volunteers.

About the Women in Ministry Series
The Women in Ministry Series is a collection of guest posts that aims to provide an alternative to the women in ministry debates by telling the stories of women in ministry and encourage women to explore their God-given callings.

Contributions Welcome: Contact Katherine at katherinepershey[at]gmail.com to pitch your post idea in 2-4 sentences. You can stay updated on the latest post each week by signing up for the weekly e-mail list.

Comment Policy: Everyone is welcome to leave a comment. However, this series takes for granted that women are called by God into every facet of ministry. This is not the place to debate that point and such comments will be removed. Women have been told “no” in far too many places. This is one place that is committed to saying “yes.”

More Information
For more about the comment policy, submitting your own story, or to sign up for the weekly e-mail list, go here.

Miscellany

2013-03-21T22:57:00.001-05:00

I miss my blog. Hello, blog.

1. I took this picture last week. At first I was really disappointed with the photo shoot, as I am pretty sad about how few good pictures I have of Genevieve. Ever since she was a baby she's always turned her head when she smiles. It's adorable, but hard to capture on film (so to speak). But I've sort of fallen in love with what I did capture here. Something really essential about who they are, as little girls and as sisters.

2. I'm going to CrossWalk Chicago tomorrow night. If you're in the Chicago area, please consider joining me.

3. We made a big list of Genevieve's words this week, and stopped counting after we hit 100.

4. Someone in a Facebook Group I'm in posted a glowing recommendation of Any Day a Beautiful Change this week, resulting in the first slew of sales that cannot be traced to my mother in a long time.

5. Rage Against the Minivan: Let's Bring the Holidays Down a Notch. YES, LET'S.

6. We have new plates! I found two boxes of Hearthside Garden Festival Stoneware for twenty dollars at a local thrift store. So super-fabulously 70s. I do need to track down a few more bowls.

7. Having a five-year-old is so much fun. I am nostalgic for the Juliette of yesteryear, but getting to do things like play Uno together is pretty cool.

8. The poor sick baby loves to sing Twinkle Twinkle.

9. It is slowly becoming triathlon-training season again. I signed up for the spring swim session at the high school, Nothing like swimming a whole bunch of drills and laps at 5:30 in the morning! I refuse to ride my bike until it is at least 50, and we haven't even hit 40 yet. It's been a long winter.

Women in Ministry: Bright and Salty and All That Jesus Jazz

2013-03-15T07:15:00.002-05:00

Jessica Bowman writes with honesty, humor, and courage. (She also reminded me of my best pantyhose/ministry story. [Okay, my ONLY pantyhose/ministry story.])

Normally I would never volunteer to write for a series with such a name as this one. The phrase “Women In Ministry” itself brings one of two images to my mind. The first involves ladies in pantyhose teaching Sunday School (have I mentioned my Baptist background lately?). The second are the Jesus feminists, blazing a trail for us all to follow, with Jesus at their lead.

I sit sort of passively, sort of ambiguously, between these two extremes. So at first glance it would seem as though I don’t have much to offer on the subject of women in ministry. But darling, brave Katherine (probably knowing full-well the stereotypes that such a series would produce in the mind’s eye) cut off my fears before I had time to voice them with this:

“You need not be working in a church. Writing is ministry! Family is ministry! Telling the truth is ministry! Kicking ass and taking names is ministry!”

That got me thinking. Really, I suppose ministry in its most organic form is simply living. Living true, living well. Living bright and salty and all that Jesus jazz.

Which you might think would alleviate my insecurities, but no. If anything, it makes me feel like even more like a ministry failure. If ministry was defined by pantyhose or being a church staff member, if the art of ministry were so black and white as all that, I could reduce it to a to-do list. I could check off a couple of concrete items and be set. Pantyhose – check. Leadership conference – check. Staff meeting – check. I win!

But life? Yeesh, that’s a bit broad, isn’t it? If life is a timeline then I’m stalking up and down it with my yellow highlighter circling the lazy bits, the impatient spots, the stumbles and depressions. I tend to reduce my life to the negatives, the failures, the glass half empties. Then I bottle up all those unsavory bottom lines, pour them into the mason jar of my existence and label it “Me”. Tada, Jessica. You kind of suck.

Needless to say, at no point in my days do I consider myself to have a successful ministry of any kind. Sure, I’m a mother but, ya know, I stink at it a lot of the time. Sure, I’m a writer but, ya know, not a fantastic one or anything. Other people are doing all of the above with more grace and finesse than I could ever muster.

Somewhere deep down I realize this is a false dichotomy. Just because someone else is more successful doesn’t mean I’m a failure. Just because sometimes I fall doesn’t mean there isn’t merit in dusting myself off and starting again.

And honestly, those people who I think are doing so much better than I am? They’re probably playing the same fruitless game on their timeline, highlighting the crappy bits, erasing the moments of grace as inconsequential, assuming the worst in themselves and the best in others.

The truth is (deep breathe), sometimes I don’t suck. Sometimes (dare I say it?) I kick ass. Sometimes I get intensely kind emails, messages, and notes from people who claim to have been blessed by my words, blessed by my “ministry”.

Usually, for the sake of self-flagellation and the ever important avoidance of the deadly sin of pride, I brush away these affirmations like pesky flies. With a side of “What are they smoking?” Then I give myself a little anti-pep talk about not letting these sorts of things go to my head and I assure myself that if the note senders “really” knew me they’d get crushed by my big fat pedestal as it toppled from glory.
But once in awhile, on a good day, when I’m just the right combination of vulnerable and confident, a little bird of the air flits through my defenses and lands squarely on the shoulder where that guy in the halo camps out. And, just for a moment, I believe I have worth. I believe that God cares about silly little things like my blog(s).

So, yeah. I guess I am a woman in ministry. Even when I refuse to believe it. Even when I fail.
Even though I don’t own pantyhose.

About Today's Contributor: Jessica is an aspiring writer, gentle-parenting, grace-extending, deep-breath-taking nearly 30 year old. She and her family of 6 have lived in 3 countries, 4 states, and both coasts in the past decade or so, recently selling everything they owned and moving to British Columbia to follow God’s latest leading. In her “free” time she loves (hula) hooping and watching mindless television on Netflix. Because she’s classy like that. You can find her blogging at Bohemian Bowmans.

About the Women in Ministry Series
The Women in Ministry Series is a collection of guest posts that aims to provide an alternative to the women in ministry debates by telling the stories of women in ministry and encourage women to explore their God-given callings.

Contributions Welcome: Contact Katherine at katherinepershey[at]gmail.com to pitch your post idea in 2-4 sentences. You can stay updated on the latest post each week by signing up for the weekly e-mail list.

Comment Policy: Everyone is welcome to leave a comment. However, this series takes for granted that women are called by God into every facet of ministry. This is not the place to debate that point and such comments will be removed. Women have been told “no” in far too many places. This is one place that is committed to saying “yes.”

More Information
For more about the comment policy, submitting your own story, or to sign up for the weekly e-mail list, go here.

#ItIsEnough

2013-03-14T02:30:00.000-05:00

I had every intention of writing something eloquent in support of gun violence prevention legislation today, for the March 14th edition of the #ItIsEnough. And then this happened.

And then I read this.

And all I can do about gun violence today is weep.

***

If you are in the Chicago area, please consider joining me on Friday, March 22nd at 6pm for the CrossWalkChicago processional.