On June 5, 1983, I was ordained into the ministry of word
and sacrament as a pastor of the Lutheran Church in America. As a new pastor at synod assemblies I would sit and applaud in utter amazement at the pastors who were recognized for 25, 30, 40 or more years of service. It seemed incredible to me then, just as it does now. Except now the pastor is me. When I look at the
photograph of me with my sisters, I smile. I was twenty-six years old, a new
mother and fresh out of seminary. I had completed my last year of seminary at
Vanderbilt Divinity School in Nashville, TN. When I look at my bright, smiling
face I see the young woman who had big dreams for serving God and loving all
people, especially the hurting and lonely children, teens and young adults, in
Jesus’ name.
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| June 5, 1983: My sisters, Kathy (left) and Carol (right) with me on ordination day. |
When I’m asked to give talks about my life as an ordained
woman-pastor with various groups, I usually divide up my life in the
before-I-was-ordained life and the after-I-was-ordained life. In high school, I
was one of the girls nominated for homecoming queen, served at the vice
president of my class (in those days all the class presidents were boys), and
was voted “the girl most likely to succeed.” I excelled at sports, music,
academics, theatre, art, leadership and being a good friend. I spoke out
against discrimination against girls, and back then there was plenty that we
were told we couldn’t do.
At Our Savior Lutheran Church in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, I loved
almost everything about church: hymns, singing the pastor’s communion liturgy
parts under my breath once a month, playing hide-and-seek after confirmation
class, youth group (we kind of had a small youth group), and Vacation Bible
School. I watched the boys serving as acolytes and I wondered why the girls
didn’t’ get to do that? I asked why. The answer: because we were girls and not
boys.
This didn’t make sense to me. In confirmation class I was
just as smart, maybe even smarter than the boys, I could outrun them on the
playground and was stronger than some of them, played jacks with the best of
them and I was in church almost every Sunday with my family. That job didn’t
look too tough. So, I politely asked the pastor if I could be an acolyte. My query
was met with a look of incredulity, the pastor shrugged and walked away. I
asked again and this time he took the request to the church council, all of
whom were men (one of them being my father). Many years later my dad told me
about this and that the men talked about this for about an hour. I think that
my dad, a champion of his daughters being able to do anything, helped them and
they voted, yes, I could be an acolyte.
I was proud that day I was the first girl acolyte. I knew
exactly what to do. I loved wearing the red cassock and white surplice holding
my acolyte staff lighting the candles in order, carrying the communion trays as
I gathered up the tiny glasses from the people of God kneeling at the altar
rail. But I knew I wanted to be a pastor before I was an acolyte. I just didn’t
tell anybody until later.
Later, I told that same pastor I wanted to be a pastor. Eventually, my home congregation changed the seminary fund from "Sons of the Ministry," to "Sons and Daughters of the Ministry" and they sent me to seminary. I am the first and, to date, the only daughter of the congregation who is a pastor. I wanted to be a pastor well before 1970 when the LCA and the ALC voted to welcome the gifts of
women to ordained life. I always talk about that vote this way: it wasn’t that
they “let” women be pastors, though I would hear people discuss it that way. To
hear some male pastors and some of the laity talk about the ordination of
women, it was like listening to people sounding Eeyore-ish go on and on about how,
“oh no, how horrible it was that these uppity women wanted to be pastors,” and
“oh no, the church is going to fall apart and the no one will come to listen to
a women preach,” and “oh no, don’t they know their place and the orders of
creation; what if they get pregnant, what if they’re having their monthly time…”
Really, they said all that and much more that I won’t repeat in this post.
To my mind it was more like: finally the church had come to
the understanding that it would welcome women to the ordained ministry because
it was a good thing for the church, not just because some women thought they
wanted to be pastors. Throughout the centuries from the very early beginnings
of the Church, there have been women who felt called to serve as pastors. It was
just that some men in the church wouldn’t let them – for a very long time. So,
for me it’s like finally recognizing that no one should stand in the way of
qualified people who feel called to serve God and our Savior Jesus.
“So, what happened to the girl most likely to succeed in her
after-ordination life?” you may wonder. That is a very good question (she replies, buying a little
time to collect thirty years of thoughts and memories)!
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| June 5, 1983: Chaplain Richard Elvee, Bishop Herb Chilstrom, random man, the Rev. Joy Bussert laying hands on me in Christ Chapel, Gustavus Adolphus College, Saint Peter, MN - also my internship site. |
Well, as you might expect it’s mixed, but not really
balanced, as if one were looking at the wonderful yin-yang symbol of balance.
It’s
not like the theatre masks either, the happy/sad faces balanced together.
It’s
more like the yin-yang black and white all swirled together all messy-like and
the faces merged as well.
Shall I start with the happy-sad or the sad-happy mess? Both?
Yes. I think I shall start with death because, while the heart of the pastor
always carries the joy of the living, we the ones who are called to the thin
places of life. We come and minister to the dying and we also gather with the
broken hearted in the death of their beloved ones. More often than not, we
bring our own tears and smiles to the mix. For all of my love of joyous
ministry moments, I feel closest to the bone of my calling while ministering to
the dying and the grieving. Since I’ve seen the face of death up close, I know
how important this is.
This isn’t morbid. For me it’s a holy-to-the-bone sense of
being where God needs me to be. Every day, people are swept into days of trial
and tribulation by circumstance and happenstance. Pastors travel into to these
moments by choice. We are sort of like the storm chasers, but not exactly. We
are like the pilots who fly into the eye of a hurricane, but more than that. We
fly solo (well, with the Holy Spirit as the wind under our wings). We soar like
a mighty eagle with no outer protection into the eye of sorrow. Then we land
and nestle near the heart of the one close to death and the loved ones who
worry and wait.
In my heart, mind and soul I carry the holy and blessed
memories of all saints who died, some too soon and some too painfully. These
are so many stories that are tucked in, close to my heart. Here are some:
I was with Joan, who had long
suffered from breast cancer. I held her hand, her family out in the waiting room, softly whispering to her that they were ready and it was okay if she needed to go to Jesus. And then, watching her breathe in deeply – and
then let go, breathing out her last breath. I stared. I said, “Joan?” And then,
stunned that she was gone, I went to get her family.
There was the young man gay man who
died from AIDS. Rejected by his priest and church, one of his aunties asked me
if I would come to pray with him and talk to him. Despondent, thin as a rail
and too sick to care, he believed he was, as the priest told him, bound for
hell and that God had abandoned him. My heart was breaking at the callous way he was treated. So, I
mustered up courage and care and told him that God loved him no matter what and
that I would be there for him and his family, though he wasn’t a member of my
congregation.
As a campus pastor, I’ve wept over countless
deaths of students who took their own lives or died in horrendous car
accidents. But nothing prepared me for the gut-wrenching news I received in a
midnight phone call on September 30, 1998. My former student Sheri, who was
beginning her second year at Luther Seminary, called to tell me that her
beloved high school sweetheart husband was dead. He was up on a roof for his
job and was electrocuted. Matt was one of our Lutheran Campus Ministry Peer
Ministers. I loved him and Sheri dearly. I presided over their wedding. They
were part of my family, friends of my children and I was also devastated.
Three memorial services later, we laid Matt to rest, picked up the pieces and
moved on, slowly, day by day.
And there were the triple deaths of
three young men who drowned while sailing on a balmy December day in Kansas and
that long journey of sorrow. I traveled with three grieving families for the many
days as the divers searched for two bodies. I attended all three funerals and I
presided over the university-wide memorial service.
Nothing can compare to the deep
sorrow I experienced after the murder of my former LCM Peer Minister Margaret
Kritsch Anderson. 32-year old Margaret was the national park ranger shot by an
angry, young Iraqi war vet on his way to the visitor’s center atop Mount
Rainier National Park on January 1, 2012. Attending her law enforcement
memorial service was incredibly moving, deeply sad yet profoundly beautiful. It
was a-swirl; a jumbled mix of great honor for her service, sorrow as she left
behind her park ranger husband and their two small daughters and respect for
her sacrifice.
The knock-your-socks-off-amazing ministry moments are just
as moving, but in a different way. There are the thousands of children,
teenagers, young adults and grown-ups with whom I’ve been graced are
spectacular.
Like 10-year old Hank, who came to
my church in Florida. His mom, Jodi, grew up in the Lutheran Church-Missouri
Synod, where she said things were pretty formal in worship. Hank loved the
sharing of the peace during worship. We shared the peace all over the sanctuary
with reckless abandon. He would turn to folks on either side of him and announced
with gusto, “Peace be with you!” This made me smile every time I’d see him out
of the corner of my eye. Then one Sunday, unbeknownst to me, Hank launched
himself out of his aisle to go share the peace with a dear elderly woman in a
wheel chair named Joyce. I found out later as Jodi told me the story, she was
mortified that he went out of his row. She said she was still getting used to
“The Peace” and not sure how she felt about it. Then, Hank did that! Jodi
hissed at him in church-mom speak, “Hank – Get. Back. Here.” But he didn’t hear
her. After he got back to his seat, having exuberantly sharing the peace, she
asked him why he did that. Earnestly and sweetly he replied, “Mom, I need to
share the peace with my Joyce (that’s how he talked about her). She can’t come
to share the peace with me, so I needed to share the peace with her. I just
love her. I just love sharing the peace of Jesus.” Jodi said that’s what
convinced her that they needed to be members of that church. When I hear people
grumble about sharing the peace, I tell that story.
Two thirds of my after-ordained life and twenty years later
as a Lutheran Campus Pastor (I put it in capital letters because it’s a title I
joyously claim), I don’t know how I could begin to tell you all the fantastic
miracle stories. There are so many wondrous tales of young adults celebrating their faith, wrestling with the big
questions of life, coming to know and love Jesus and caring about his body -
the Church - here on earth and learning how to love one another deeply,
profoundly, tenaciously and how to love others and the world.
Of course I’m pleased about the dozens of young adults and
not-so-young adults who have discerned their callings to serve as ministers in
Jesus’ Church. But I’m equally pleased when people embrace what it means to live
out their baptismal vocation in all that they say and do. I love it when people
can hear the stories of the scripture echo into and through their own lives. I
especially love it when the gospel of Jesus’ love carves out and breaks open up
new places of compassion in someone when it wasn’t there before. I love it when
people get changed from being judgmental and indifferent about suffering, to
inching closer to God’s heart and God’s care for the tattered souls of the
world. That’s true conversion that opens new conversations, friendships, love and shared
work.
I embrace and celebrate all the sad-happy, happy-sad moments
of my ministry. What concerns me the most though, and what has scarred me
forever is - Ugliness. I was not prepared for Ugliness to grab my ankles
trying to suck me under, into the muck. The bright-faced, love-the-world, smiley girl in the
photo with her sisters had no idea that some seemingly well-meaning people were
actually Gollum-esque and horrid. There is no way to talk about being a pastor
without naming the dark underside of the belly of the Church. It’s where the
ugly, pale-faced, sickly creatures lurk.
Their names are Meanness,
Passive-aggression, Two-faced-liar, Conniving, Dysfunction and Heartless. They brood,
sulk and scheme, their sole mission is to abuse and torment the clergy. They
conspire to undo and harm you. I know a lot of pastors who are very wounded,
beaten people, through no fault of their own. I guess they weren’t prepared for
the onslaught of Ugliness either. This happens to male and female clergy, but I
think that most of us in pastoral ministry would agree that the level of intensity and vitriol is
heightened when it’s directed toward a woman pastor.
Since I became a martial
artist nearly 25 years ago, I learned how to defend myself in real time and how
to protect my ankles a little better from the attacks of Camp Ugliness. Scarred
tissue is stronger, they say. Those places in my soul are stronger, but they’re
not as attractive as my unscathed spirit; the one that just wanted to shine for
Jesus. Some of the scars just come with everyday living. But some of them come from the unwarranted, unexpected and unwelcome hazards of pastoral ministry. There are many things that get me
through those dangerous times.
This is when I have to remember two things:
1)
The Church is not God. The Church is us – the broken,
mixed up people, struggling along seeking redemption, trying to put itself
together out of its shards and fragments. Sometimes we hurt each other.
Sometimes we try to kill spirits – intentionally and unintentionally. Even so,
this is never okay. I am never okay with others trying to murder my soul or my
body. As I pastor, with great compassion and with brutal honesty, I’m always
going to stand up to bullies no matter whom or where they are – even in the
Church.
2)
Do not let anyone take my sense of humor. If
that happens, all is lost and I might as well throw in my stole, toss my alb
in the trash, kick the dust off my Birkenstocks and lock my communion kit up
forever.
I know that I number 3 should be about my faith in Jesus and
how it’s sustained me through these thirty years. But for me, that’s a given.
You can’t be a pastor and not throw your lot and your life with Jesus. Well, I
guess some people pretend and do it all the time, but I can’t. I love Jesus and
following him. I love walking a sacramental life, intentionally pouring my life out for others, choosing to have my heart be broken open more and more so that I
can love more deeply, more fully and more calmly. I love that I can love even
my enemies and sometimes in that love, they become friends. I love my life and my
ministry and give thanks to The Great I Am of the Universe (my name for God)
for carrying me, calling me, cradling me, covering me, and giving me courage
when I thought I just could Not. Do This. Anymore.
The heart of a pastor is broken apart by love and beauty; by
the innocent words of children and the insistent questions of teens; by the
late night struggles of young adults and the morning cries of the elderly. We
accompany you when you think no one will come and we pick you up when you thought
you were left by the side of the road to die alone. We splash you with a water-welcome
and toss the dirt of the earth upon you when you go back to God. I live my
pastor-life, not because the yin-yang shape is perfect-pure and the theatre masks hang
all pretty-like on the wall. I choose this life because it is a life of heartbreaking,
breathtaking beauty graced by the One who holds us fast and who calls us into a
life of love, however feebly I may live it. It is a beautiful life because God
brings new life out of all the dead places over and over again. It's happened to me and I've seen it happen to others.
So, Dear Ones, I offer this tender reflection and give thanks to all of you,
especially my beloved family members, who have blessed me along the way. Here’s to the next
thirty!
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June 5, 2013: My wonderful spouse, Jack Hayes, who has been my rock and has been with me all this time, at times when we've only had each other, standing the Rock whose name is Jesus. |
