Saying Grace

In June, I was lucky enough to participate in a conference at the Centre for Biblical Studies in Cluj, Romania. The papers we presented will be revised and published in a volume of The Bible and Women series, translated into German, Spanish, Italian, and English. I’ll tell you a bit more about this event later.

Although Romania was never on my list of must-see places to visit, I do very much enjoy traveling, and especially to international meetings of New Testament scholars. After receiving the invitation last fall, I did a quick Google search of birding spots in Romania. Highlights included the Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve and the Carpathian Mountains.  Since many of the most exciting and joyful activities of our marriage have involved birding, Tim agreed we should look into the options for a birdwatching tour of Romania.

We were fortunate to locate Neophron Tours, with Dimiter Georgiev its managing director. Like most birding guides, Dimiter has an encyclopedic memory of bird identifications, their special habitats, flight patterns, nesting habits, and varieties of songs and calls. He ably led us on our search for 160+ species of birds, on the water and the shore, in fields and steppes, in the air and high in the mountains.

As you may know, birdwatching is a soul-restoring activity for me. On this trip, I thoroughly relaxed from the mental and emotional intensities that come at the end of the academic year. A 3-day boat trip through the Danube Delta brought the gentle rocking of the boat, the lapping of wavelets on its sides, a persistent breeze, the bright sun, and the silence of my companions as we listened for birds. Need I say that many naps were taken?

Late one day, we putted slowly across a lake area dotted by large numbers of lily pads with white and yellow flowers. These pads supported the nests of Common Terns and Black-necked Grebes, along with any number of croaking green frogs. The motor turned off, we drifted along, very close to the birds who were not that alarmed.

Then, at the other side of the lake, I  saw an activity I had heard about but never observed: the mating dance of two Great Crested Grebes. The birds approach each other, necks bending and bowing , forehead and “ear” feathers fanned out, entranced with each other, then swimming or diving away. It was magic. A miracle. A solace. A delight. A sign of God’s presence.

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I suspect most of you have seen enough Romanian birds now, so I’ll get back to the scholarly conference. Other delightful experiences awaited me there, including:

• engaging conversations with Professor Korinna Zamfir, of Babes-Bolyai University in Cluj, the organizer of the meeting;
• delicious meals with Professors Angela Standhartinger and Marianne Bjelland Kartzow whose writings on the Pastoral Letters have enriched my own; and,
• lively discussions about early female deacons, graduate students, and the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” with Professor Ekaterini Tsalampouni of Aristotle University of Thessaloniki.

My assigned topic was “Mothers in the New Testament Letters.” I felt a bit daunted to tackle this topic because there aren’t very many “real” mothers mentioned in these letters. I wondered what I would talk about. Here’s a paragraph that describes my dilemma:

Like all of you, I have had my own particular experience of being mothered. My mother was a married White college-educated woman, who liked to sew, lead our Girl Scout troops, and teach kindergarten. During the 1950s and 60s, we lived in a mostly White, American, middle-class very small town in a farming region. Years later, I had married and moved to Chicago, and I became a mother myself, giving birth to two infants. I snuggled and breastfed them, cleaned and clothed them. As they grew, I provided for their economic and social needs, for their educational and religious training. And now I support them as adults who are parenting their own funny, delightful, and sometimes irritating children. I have been in a mothering role for nearly 40 years. I could talk for a long time about my regrets and delights in being a mother (and so could my children and spouse). My personal experience serves to remind me of how little we actually know about the mothering accomplished by women in the Roman Imperial world.

When a scholar sits in their study, researching and writing a paper alone, it can be hard to imagine the audience who will listen to and interact with their thoughts. One worries that the paper will receive highly-critical questions or perhaps extremely bored indifference. (Academics [even those studying the Bible] can be very competitive and ambitious!) I’m glad to say that the scholars and papers at this conference were welcomed with generous attention along with insightful additions to their arguments.

So, these are a few of my summer encounters: birds and feminist biblical scholars. Actually, when I think about it, what could be more restorative?

 

 

I began preaching once a month when I was called to serve as associate pastor at LaSalle Street Church (Chicago) in 1989.

Let it be known that I have never taken a course in homiletics. The grace of God and the generous attention of those people formed me as a preacher.

Not only did I lack training in preaching, I had also never taken a course in biblical exegesis. By trial and error, I learned how to study a text, and then how to express some true and important things about it that might be helpful to the spiritual growth of other people. Again, the grace of God.

My ignorance and inexperience led me back to school about twenty years after my first sojourn at seminary (see my November 2017 blog post).  This time I discovered  McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago.

Thinking I might like to work on a Doctor of Ministry degree,  the plan was to take enough masters-level courses (especially in biblical studies) to supplement my earlier, shorter degree and go on to the DMin.

Twenty years before, my first seminary experience was full-time and residential. Now  I was part-time commuter student. I registered for a fall course called “The Letters of Paul” and drove down to Hyde Park for the first day of class. Walking through the lower-level of the building, I saw a woman somewhat frantically making multiple copies on different colors of paper. Turned out this was my professor, Dr. Margaret M. Mitchell, and she was assembling the 20+ syllabus for our class that met just about 15 minutes later.

After maybe two class sessions, my brain was on fire, and in a good way. We delved into Paul’s writings in ways that:

• positioned the letters in the Roman Imperial context;
• made clear his sometimes contentious relationships with the recipient churches;
• explained some of Paul’s more confusing images and theology; and,
• connected the students with strong research about ancient literature and rhetoric.

I was enthralled by Professor Mitchell’s extensive knowledge of Greek and Roman philosophy, archaeology, history, and art. Her enthusiasm energized the lectures and discussions.

Every day I found new ideas to ponder about these letters . . . deeper interpretations that made their way into my sermons and teaching. I just love this about theological education–those opportunities for integrative learning that benefit leaders, churches, and missions.

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I registered for my next course at McCormick, during Winter Quarter 1996: “The Book of Job,” instructor Dr. Theodore Hiebert. What a contrast in teachers, topics, and learning strategies! Ted’s syllabus was exactly one page long, on white paper, an example of the openness of his pedagogy. I think our first assignment might have been to write an essay about a personal experience of Job-like suffering, when life felt unfair, God seemed absent, and hope was exhausted. At the end of each class, Ted would organize the next session, asking “Who would like to present on C. S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed?,” “or “. . .  Bill McKibben‘s The Comforting Whirlwind?” “Which two of you want to respond?” Throughout this seminar, we students developed deep respect for each other, and, I at least, gained an enduring affection for the book of Job.

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My four years of part-time study at McCormick focused on these and other delightful instructors: Sarah Tanzer, Robert Brawley, David Esterline, Paula Hiebert. And they brought another turn in my journey: following their examples, I gradually discerned a call to a teaching ministry in biblical studies. I switched my course of study to an MA, and immersed myself in Greek and Hebrew. With their support, I applied to doctoral programs in my late 40s, so that, by the grace of God again, they became my colleagues in this academic mission.

Once again, theological education changed my life, this time through these professors who labor in that field out of love for the scriptures and for those students preparing for ministry.

 

Although I’m a committed book-reader, I still manage to watch several shows each week through Netflix, Prime, and Acorn services. I even follow a couple shows on prime-time TV. I could tell you that these shows are my “guilty pleasures,” except that I don’t feel any guilt (or shame) at all about spending my time this way. In fact, sometimes I find God there. And I see other people searching for God, or expressing faith, or trying to align their lives in response to a personal challenge that has spiritual or moral dimensions.

On CBS, for example, “Madam Secretary” features a US Secretary of State whose husband is a Catholic moral theologian (and a spy). Hardly an episode goes by without a mention of Thomas Aquinas or the application of Christian ethical analysis to a contemporary political situation. This is the influence of writer Joy Gregory, who brings her Catholic background and her interest in people of faith to bear on each episode.

“The Crown” series on Netflix depicts the reigns of Queen Elizabeth II, with a touching portrayal of the religious devotion she brought when she was first crowned, as well as a scene or two with Rev. Billy Graham. While these may not be factually accurate, they help the viewer reflect on the depth of Elizabeth’s commitment in her leadership role. The character certainly understands her ascension to the throne as a godly act.

It was surprising to hear a quotation from the Bible in a sermon given by the Rev. Paul Coates (played by Arthur Darvill) in the final episode of the BBC’s “Broadchurch” season 2. To a community filled with fear, sadness, and anger after a vicious murder committed by one of their own, the priest says: 

 “There’s a line from Hebrews [10:24-25c] echoing through my head: ‘Let us all consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Not giving up meeting together as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another . . . .’ Now I hope that even without me here you will go on encouraging one another. All any of us really want are love and good deeds.”

A bit simplistic, but a lovely way to interpret the scripture for a particularly difficult (fictional and cinematic) context.

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I skimmed through Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up a couple years ago but never used her process with my own possessions. My initial reaction to her idea that a piece of clothing, artwork, or book should “spark joy” seemed just silly to me.

Then I watched the first episode of her new Netflix reality show “Tidying with Toddlers,” and I was struck by the gentle but firm spirit with which she engages the family. As she found a place to kneel in silence, eyes closed, thanking the home for its sheltering of the family, I felt the holiness of the moment through the screen. The parents teared up as they too sat silently, remembering the ideals and hopes for their life together in that home. Something shifted in their relationship to each other, their children, and their domestic environment. The scene reminded me of my first attraction to our house and inspired a gratitude to God that its spaces that have been so hospitable for my family and friends over thirty-two years.

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Another show that I’ve touched base with is the 2018 version of Netflix “Queer Eye.” In Season 1, Episode 5, a “devoutly Christian father of six” living in Marietta, Georgia, is nominated for a makeover by the five gay men. While digging in a new vegetable garden with the nominee, star Bobby Berk bluntly asks him what he thinks about gays. The father says, “We are supposed to love everybody.” Bobby replies with his own story: he was raised in an Assembly of God congregation, went to church “every day of the week,” played in the praise band, attended youth group, etc., etc. But then the church’s judgments and preaching against homosexuality excluded him from that lifelong commune with God and with other believers. A heartbreaking moment for any Christian to watch.

This crucial issue of how churches relate to LGBTQ persons arises again in Season 2, Episode 1 “God Bless the Gay.”

This time the five hosts drive to Gay, Georgia (population 89, and yes, the town name does not go unmentioned) in order to meet Ms. Tammye Hicks. She’s asked them to finish up a renovation on her church’s community center, so Christian faith and practice take center place in this episode. On the drive in, the hosts discuss their personal history with church and with God, with both positive and negative experiences. I watched this episode last fall and I’m still impressed by their openness and vulnerability. And, if you’re looking for a sermon illustration about forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing, then the story of “Mama Tammye” and her family offers up real-life miracles.

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My son never tires of pointing out that I gravitate toward stories with happy — or at least, fairly resolved — endings: murder mysteries and makeovers, The Lord of the Rings and The Wizard of Earthsea, memoirs where the writer achieves some goal, or learns something new about themselves or others, or moves into the next stage of life with courage and good humor. I suppose that’s why I’m a teacher so that I can experience the joy of participating in the learning and growth of others. It’s also why I’m a believer in the movement of God’s Spirit, the one who seeks to bring wholeness to all creation.

 

 

 

 

 

The Church That Takes on Trouble

That’s the title of a 1976 book describing the ministry of LaSalle Street Church. I arrived there in 1979, and felt proud to be a member of a church that, like Jesus, was so engaged with the poor. Situated between Chicago’s Gold Coast and the notorious Cabrini-Green public housing projects, the Holy Spirit called us to organize particular ministries:

• a legal aid clinic
• counseling center with a sliding-fee scale
• after-school tutoring
• support for low-income seniors
• a Young Life program
• mixed-income housing development
• and other ways of meeting the needs of city people in the name of Christ.

I was reminded of this book by my pastor, Randall Blakey, this past Sunday. He mentioned the title in his sermon as a way of encouraging the congregation to move into another troublesome arena: hard conversations about race and equity in America.

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Yes, LaSalle Street Church is probably taking on more trouble by devoting eight Sundays this fall to talk about race.

In sermons, prayers, and community discussions, we’re considering the long-term consequences of the continuing segregation of the city of Chicago (see the report “A Tale of Three Cities” from the University of Illinois at Chicago).

We learned more about racial biases in the criminal justice system from the Rev. Dominique Dubois Gilliard, author of the book Rethinking Incarceration: Advocating for Justice That Restores.

We (speaking as a white person here) have been urged by Pastor Laura Truax to look at our own blindness about racial injustice by pondering Jesus’ statement to Nicodemus: “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above” (John 3:3). What happens when we ask God to give us the vision to see both the realities of other people’s life experiences and the good and perfect divine will for human community?

On Sunday, Pastor Randall opened up the story of Jesus and the woman at the well in John 4, where the conversation begins with a statement of division due to longstanding racial prejudice, and ends with the goal of all participating in true worship in spirit and truth.  After worship, we met in small groups to talk about our own stories: when did we first become aware of racial differences, and how did we feel about that experience?

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Everyone knows this: personal, individual change is difficult, whether it’s a change in knowledge, attitude, habit, or behavior. I think this is also true: change in a whole church community is even more difficult, painful, and complicated.

While teaching a seminary class in August, I told a group of students that for the first time in over thirty years my church decided to change the times for Sunday worship and education. Everyone groaned loudly, and then laughed.  We church leaders all knew the kind of fallout from such a decision, from hurt feelings to lost members to unintended consequences for parking, worship planning, and coffee hour.

So imagine, in addition, the positive attitude, relational skills, and persistent faith one needs to participate in a two-month group conversation about race in America. I don’t know about you, but I don’t usually want my experiences at church to be very challenging, to make me feel uncomfortable, or to call me to deep repentance.

I usually would rather give thanks for God’s compassion, pray for sick relatives, and generally center my heart through the music and silence. Nowadays, I miss meeting with my adult ed group, our fellowship time has been cut in half, and I’m hurriedly steering my grandkids to Sunday School, while trying to be welcoming to strangers.

But after all that, I arrive at the church’s “Community Hour” discussion on race and equity. I learn so much from the sermons and presentations, share parts of my own story, and listen respectfully to my friends in Christ. Through these conversations God blesses and teaches me, and weaves my life together with the lives of others.

And the God of grace meets us there, and calls forth change . . . in my self, in my relationships, and, yes, even in the church.

Maybe you saw the results of a new study about people’s attitudes toward women’s ordination, described in the book She Preached the Word: Women’s Ordination in Modern America, by Benjamin R. Knoll and Cammie Jo Bolin.  Their conclusion, keeping it short and sweet: “It’s good for girls to see clergywomen at work” (article by Jana Riess on the Religion News Service website).

Knoll and Bolin state: “One of our most striking findings is that women who had female congregational leaders in their youth enjoyed higher levels of self-esteem as adults.”

This is satisfying news for those of us female clergy: simply being visible in our leadership roles has a beneficial effect on young women. Praise God.

The research reminded me of a story of my own:

In the summer of 2015, I was looking for a co-leader for a Doctor of Ministry cohort here at UDTS. The topic was something to do with families and faith, so I started a list of names of authors, professors, and pastors who had some church leadership experience and who would bring different gifts beyond my biblical studies knowledge.

Reading through The Christian Century I saw an ad for one of their columnists, the Rev. Carol Howard Merritt. The words “being church together,” “older and younger,” and “a particular generation” jumped out at me.

I did an internet search on Carol . . . an ordained PCUSA pastor, very appropriate for our seminary. . . . pastor at four distinct churches . . . . writer of two books about church communities. Sounded like a great possible team-teacher!

So I sent an email via her website: https://www.carolhowardmerritt.org/

Carol picks up her side of this story in a 2015 blogpost:

If you know me or have heard me speak, you’ve probably heard this story. I have told it hundreds of times. I grew up Southern Baptist and attended Moody Bible Institute. I felt a call to go into ministry, but I was frustrated because the only ministries that seemed open to me were teaching the women’s Bible study or playing the organ. I don’t know how to play the organ, and though I love teaching women’s Bible studies, my call felt broader. 

In my irritation, I would frequently talk with Sue Duffy. Sue was an elder at Fourth Presbyterian Church in Chicago. She was quadriplegic, so I often helped her with small things, like filling out tax forms or running to the drug store. Sue would laugh at the fundamentalist shenanigans, and she would always say, “Carol, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

Eventually, Sue encouraged me to go to a church with a woman pastor. I attended LaSalle Street Church, where I listened to a woman preach, and thought, There are no bolts of lightening piercing the sanctuary. The church is still standing. And, She’s a wonderful preacher! I can still recall a number of her sermons, decades later. As she preached, I slowly began to imagine that I could do the same thing. I realized that Sue was right. It didn’t have to be that way. There were other ways of being Christian, and so I began to grow into a broader understanding of being a Christian and my call as a pastor.

Fast forward, twenty-five years later.

I’m in my backyard on a beautiful summer day, writing this very story for my next book. My email notification pings and so I check it. It’s an email from a professor at Dubuque Theological Seminary, asking if I would like to teach a Doctor of Ministry course with her. She had been reading my column in the Christian Century, and thought that we would make a good team. Since the D.Min. is a practical degree, she wanted to teach the course with someone who has been a pastor more recently. Then she wrote that she hadn’t been a pastor for 20 years, since she served LaSalle Street Church in Chicago.

It was the very same Pastor Huizenga, who is now Dr. Annette Huizenga, an Assistant Professor of New Testament. 

This is one of those incredible coincidences in life. One that can give you goose-bumps, or boost your faith in the purposeful movement of God’s Spirit.

What makes it even more amazing to me is that I have absolutely no memory of even meeting Carol when I was a pastor at LaSalle Street Church. There were always a few Moody Bible Institute students who landed at our worship services each year. Maybe some of them were late for the service at Moody Bible Church, and our sanctuary was a few blocks closer. Or, since we had a reputation for being a bit edgy and “liberal,” some students came out of curiosity or rebelliousness. Our congregation was large enough that folks could come and go anonymously for months at a time, and I suspect that Carol was one of that crowd.

You never know. You’re never fully aware of who is observing you, as a pastor or as a Christian. That hard-to-reach, slouching teenager. A ragged wanderer seeking truth and mercy. Someone wounded by their experiences of church, but still yearning to answer the call of God in their life.

When I was a child, I learned there was a hugely important event called “World War I.” Decades later, the war continued to touch my own family, even as the resulting political fault-lines set the stage for World War II and other 20th-century international conflicts.

Many recognized men fought in this war—-Winston Churchill, Theodore Roosevelt’s son Quentin, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Joyce Kilmer (who wrote the poem “Trees”). Another soldier, known only to a few people, was my great-uncle, Paul Eason, who joined the American Expeditionary Forces in France. On June 4, 1918, this Midwestern boy arrived in France where he encountered the hellish experiences of that particular war.

One hundred years ago, on July 18, 1918, Uncle Paul died near Soissons, France. He was a Private First Class in the U.S. First Infantry Division, which fought in the Allied counter-offensive to the Second Battle of the Marne, driving the German Army back from its closest approach to the city of Paris.

Even after sixty and more years, my grandmother Nellie Eason Bourland mourned the absence of her younger brother. Her two older brothers and her husband had also served in the war, and they returned alive, although they did not speak much about their own wartime experiences. Paul was the baby of the family, who had enlisted at the age of 17 with his parents’ permission.

No one now alive ever knew Uncle Paul, but we heard the story of his death. My grandfather, who never met Paul, used to say: “He poked his head up from a trench and was hit in the forehead by a piece of shrapnel, just under the front of his helmet, and killed instantly.” We don’t know if that’s what happened, or whether that was a story meant to console his family that he didn’t suffer.

Thanks to detailed U.S. military records, my father obtained a copy of a handwritten letter from Paul’s older brother George. Writing from Neuwied in occupied Germany on December 17, 1918, George asks for:

A little information of wich [sic] I can find no other way of getting except through you. That is the exact spot or near about where my Brother is buried. . . . It was my mother’s wish that I look up the place and to find out in what way [Paul] was killed. If you know and can let me know so that I’ll have a chance of visiting the place it will be appreciated.

Paul’s body was buried in a temporary trench-site near where he fell on the battlefield. Then, like the bodies of so many thousands of other young men, it was moved to a more official location.

Finally, Paul’s remains were repatriated to the Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery near St. Louis, Missouri. My grandfather used to recount how he attended the burial service there in May 1921, holding his infant daughter Jane in his arms next to my grandmother and her parents and brothers as they all wept once again.

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In 2012, my husband Tim and I followed in the footsteps of my great-uncle George, touring the area where Paul had died near Soissons. We visited the Oise-Aisne American Cemetery, and talked with a researcher-guide about the movements of the U.S. First Division in July 1918. We were amazed at the sincere gratitude this thirty-something graduate student expressed on behalf of all the French people for the participation of the American troops.

Looking around, who would guess that these sunny, rolling fields of champagne grapes were once completely littered with trenches, barbed wire, and booby traps? How could we begin to visualize the three-week long battle that left over 250,000 men dead or wounded?

This spring, we listened to all six episodes of “Blueprint for Armaggedon,” Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History podcast about World War I (highly recommended). Over 23 hours of narration he describes the political climate, military decisions, and absolutely horrendous conditions for all the armies involved: heavy artillery bombardments, creeping mustard gas, flamethrowers, and mud just the right consistency to drown a man.

The events of World War I bring up ethical dilemmas that challenge our stereotypes of right and wrong.  How can we assess the continuing effects of

• the psychological damage to generations of nations?
• the killing and maiming of so many young adult men?
• the ruination of agricultural lands and the destruction of iconic buildings and cities?
• the ideologies that changed political systems for good?
• the “modern” forms of warfare that de-humanized combatants and civilians?

I suppose my blog post is a sort of “text of terror,” a term coined by scholar Phyllis Trible to explain the purpose of re-telling biblical stories of violence, degradation, and grief. My interest in learning about Uncle Paul is not to valorize my family as particularly patriotic, nor to idolize the American military response while demonizing the German imperialist advances. Instead, I want to reflect on his short life as he lived in the midst of the much larger historical events in order to figure out my own life’s meaning in my 21st century context. How can I follow Christ with integrity when faced with the moral dilemmas of this age?  What am I called to do? To speak? To love? Even to be willing to die for?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let me tell you about the weather: April 16 is another snowy Monday here in Dubuque. It’s cloudy and windy, too. The many hills in this part of Iowa make walking outside an icy adventure. I’m feeling weighed down by a long, dreary winter-into-spring.

It’s not just the meteorological atmosphere that has me in its tight grip. Members of my extended family are undergoing significant life changes with ripple effects into our family system. And I dread hearing about the daily political tensions—national and global—that embroil us in interpersonal and international conflicts. There’s this envelope of gray, heavy feelings all around.

Where is the joy?

Birds help. Watching birds. On Sunday I stopped on the shoulder of US 20, north of Freeport, to scan a small pond for shorebirds. I found two Wilson’s Snipe.

Semis went flying past as the snipes poked their bills into the mud, searching for worms and seeds in the near-freezing water. Grasses bent over in the northeast wind. Snow flurries blew around. I rolled down the window and, for just a few minutes, I entered into the world of foraging snipes.

It’s actually the middle of spring bird migration over North America. Birdwatchers in the Chicago-area started posting their “first of year” (FOY) sightings of early migrants back in late February. Bald Eagles that cluster around the locks and dams of the Mississippi River have flown north, replaced by another large raptor, Turkey Vultures. This week brought reports of Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, Brown Creepers, and Common Loons. One of my favorite spring sights is the Great Blue Heron, legs trailing out behind and carrying sticks for their large nests.

I have a copy of  Wendell Berry’s poem “The Peace of Wild Things” stuck to my refrigerator door. He, too, finds solace in the company of birds:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

Such a peaceful image. Today I feel closer to the lament found in Psalm 102:6-7:

I am like an owl of the wilderness,
   like a little owl of the waste places. 
I lie awake;
   I am like a lonely bird on the housetop. 

Whether I identify with the Berry’s calmly sleeping duck or the lonely little owl of the psalm, in real life birds pull me out of my corners of fear and self-concern. God’s creation is vast and varied, full of living creatures that need to eat and nest and raise their young. I stand in awe of the aerial maneuvers of a tiny Anna’s Hummingbird and hold my breath with a Bufflehead diving underwater. My eyes water as I follow a Rough-legged Hawk soaring against a cloudy sky.

When a pair of American Robins built a nest in a hanging basket on my front porch last year, I felt blessed. Why should these animals grant me such a trust? How can we trust more in the goodness of God? Maybe we can act like the birds of Psalm 84, building our homes close to our loving God:

Even the sparrow finds a home,
   and the swallow a nest for herself,
   where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
   my King and my God. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like many women, for years (decades even) of my life, I have felt anxiety, fear, and outrage about sexual harassment. The public accusations of the #MeToo movement brought this into our common consciousness this past fall.

In my family, we’ve had conversations about our own experiences of gender and the workplace. We’ve discussed the downfalls of the rich and famous and debated how our legal system could speak and act against such injustices.

Surely, Christians are called to create spaces where women and men receive equitable emotional, financial, and physical benefits at work. Such a culture would manifest the true reign of God: each person, regardless of their sex, fulfilling their purpose as God’s beloved children.

Last week I ventured up the steep stairs into my freezing-cold and dusty attic to find a cardboard box of sermons. These manuscripts only exist in hard-copy because they come from 1989-99, the decade when I served as a pastor at LaSalle Street Church-Chicago.

I was looking for a particular sermon, one that talked about the U.S. Senate hearings with now-Professor Anita Hill on the appointment of Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court. It was a memorable sermon to me because at the end of the worship service, a church member chastised me for bringing politics into the church, calling me out for speaking “inappropriately.”

Up in the attic, I found the sermons organized in colorful file folders and arranged in biblical canonical order: Genesis to Revelation. The title of each was carefully printed on the tab as well. But what Bible passage could have inspired me to mention the Clarence Thomas hearings? Genesis 38, the story of Tamar and Judah? Something from the Book of Judges, where many of the women suffer greatly? A narrative about Mary Magdalene or the woman caught in adultery?

Hmmm. I had to start at the beginning and riffle through each one. Finally I found it. The date was October 20, 1991, and the title was “What We Want.” The sermon text was Mark 10:35-45, where James and John ask Jesus for the special privilege of sitting next to him in his glory.

Now, in my memory, I had spoken as one of God’s prophets, advocating for justice and respect for women at work and in the world. And the sermon does open with that theme:

“They just don’t get it. Men really just don’t get it.” I was listening to a woman friend last Friday. She repeated the phrase used by many women in the last few weeks regarding sexual harassment in the workplace.

But the next sentences go in a slightly different direction:

I disagree with her blanket condemnation of men. In my experience there are some men that do get it, and also some women who don’t get it. But the phrase came back to me as I studied the text from Mark. It’s a judgment that could easily be applied to the Twelve, the disciples who were in Jesus’ inner circle. . . . They just didn’t get what Jesus was about.

The rest of the sermon explores what happens when people, like James and John, desire power–and that’s where I named some powerful people, including Clarence Thomas, President Bush, the U.S. senators, and other politicians.

I was thinking about the Gospel story through the lenses of gender, power, and faith. With a false sigh of relief, I stated:

It looks to me like the politicians and the Twelve are all the same kind of power-hungry people. And we can thank God that we are not at all like them, right? . . . I mean, after all, these twelve disciples and the politicians we saw on TV last week– they’re all men, and I’m a woman. So that lets me, and some of you, off the hook.

Perhaps women are immune from seeking power. The Gospel of Mark portrays the women disciples in a very positive light. They leave everything and follow him all the way to the cross, where they do not abandon him, as the Twelve did. In a society that valued power, they understand and practice true Christian leadership, which is: to be a servant to all. 

The problem is, if I’m going to be honest, I know that many women want power, too. We may want different kinds of power and we may try to get it in different ways than men do. In Matthew’s Gospel, it’s not James and John who come directly to Jesus asking for positions of power. It’s their mother, Mary who approaches Jesus, seeking to increase her own status through her sons’ accomplishments.

We all want power. Any one of us might have asked Jesus for a position of power if we were given the opportunity. That is the system the disciples grew up in, and we still experience it today. It’s a system where you’re either up or down. [If I were preaching this sermon today, I would definitely use the word “patriarchal” to describe the ladder-like social system.]

There’s a whole ladder of who’s higher than whom. And it’s hurtful to be down rather than up the ladder. People on the bottom get stepped on in many ways. Their mental and physical health suffers because of the prejudice and bigotry of those above them. They find it hard to move up the ladder in significant ways. They’re told to stay in their place. Maybe that’s happened to you or to someone you know.

It was eye-opening to re-read an old sermon, and I felt especially discouraged to realize that our society still promotes gender stereotypes that entangle our God-created humanity in sinful attitudes and behaviors. And yet, I had concluded with a hopeful image, one that even now I hold in my heart:

In this teaching, Jesus says that the ladder of power, status, and domination must be abolished in his fellowship. That ladder needs to be replaced by a new form of leadership: a circle of equal servanthood. It is the Spirit of this Jesus who is with us today, holding out a new way to form relationships, and giving us the power to create a community of equal servants here and around the world.