Practice What You Preach

In the Presbyterian Church, those who feel called to ordained ministry must pursue a process with their respective church sessions (that’s the governing board) and presbyteries (that’s the local governing body). They become “inquirers” upon the request of their session and the approval of the presbytery’s Committee on Preparation for Ministry; this phase lasts for an indefinite period of time, but at least one year. At some point, they pursue (with the session’s prior approval) candidacy for ordination with their presbyteries. I was approved for candidacy by my presbytery in April 2006, after 18 months as an Inquirer. I asked that the charge be given me by one of the members of my home presbytery, who had studied Hebrew with me at seminary and is now a campus chaplain at the University of Arizona. Ben told me I was crazy for studying advanced exegesis during my last semester at seminary, especially with a professor as notoriously meticulous as Dr. Theodore Hiebert (Francis A. McGaw Professor of Old Testament McCormick Theological Seminary, Chicago). He was right, of course, though I have to qualify that my last year at seminary was so transformative both theologically and personally that I can’t regret a single pang of the stress. I told Ben prior to the meeting that I felt a need for a deeper understanding of the Hebrew Scriptures, and how they inform my theology of community; I had to teach this in my ministry. That was my call. In his charge to me before the assembled members, Ben joked about what he’d said prior to the meeting (in my defense, I want to say that I firmly believe that the hallmark of a good teacher is someone who wants to be a good learner!). To me personally, he said this as his charge: I want you to run away. Take that call, and run away with it. Run away from seminary, from book learning, from academics….learn through living.

I have to say that his words have been very prophetic, in more ways than one. I have mentioned previously that I spent many years trying to be self-sufficient; part of my defense was learning to express myself meticulously well in words. Unfortunately, this led to an overemphasis on the academic and too little attention to reality. It showed when I met with the committee for my annual review 12 months later. On paper, my theology is not only sound, but excellent and firmly in line with the Reformed Tradition. The issue was that I had a problem pulling it off paper and living it out, because for so many years I avoided community. The committee debated at great length over what we discussed; in the end, they recommended that I cease my candidacy at the time because I didn’t seem to be growing in a manner consistent with a candidate for ordination. Five weeks later I began my first unit of CPE, during which I had to bare all to my fellow chaplains (metaphorically speaking). Halfway through the unit, they stunned me by telling me that they knew little or nothing about me as a person; I’d shared so little of my true self. That was the turning point for me, the morning I realized that I hadn’t truly opened up to others with whom I shared such intimate experiences. From that day forward, I had to consciously think about everything I did and said, and how it appeared to others, as opposed to assuming that they’d understand what I was about. The more time I spent living outside myself and in community with others, the more I questioned my call. I found myself dissatisfied with the lack of spontaneity in Calvinism, and the continuous, laborious process of debate that never seems to lead to a transformation. In December 2008, at the end of my second unit of CPE, I officially resigned my membership in the Presbyterian Church, USA and joined the United Church of Christ, through which I will be seeking ordination. In four days, I will be attending a local board meeting for the first time, to get a feel for the governing body. Over the next day or so, I will be composing the letter I will present to the governing council of the church I have joined; its members, in turn, will make a motion to our local Committee on Ministry to take me in care as someone seeking ordination. After this, I’ll be appointed a tutor to teach me more about the history and polity of the UCC, and eventually I will write a masters’ level type paper demonstrating my understanding of UCC polity and how I integrate it into my ministry. At that point, the Committee will, God willing, approve me to seek a call to ordained ministry.

I went through a sort of grieving process after leaving Presbyterianism; it’s the church in which I was raised and has been the faith tradition of my mother’s family for over 300 years. While it’s somewhat similar to the UCC since both are part of the Reformed Tradition, it’s still different – I’ve officially cut the ties. I didn’t realize that when Ben told me to run away, he meant it to a degree that was so literal! Yet, the more I study UCC structure, the more I realize that I made the right choice. I first started having issues with my denomination four years ago, but at the time I thought it was something to be worked out internally (after all, that had been my modus operandi for years). When I moved to New Orleans, I met two staff chaplains at the hospital here who are ordained in the UCC after having left other denominations (one had been Presbyterian, the other Episcopal) and began actively discussing with them the discord I’d felt. They affirmed my concerns, but did not pressure me in any way – merely listened and offered feedback. Three months after my arrival in the Big Easy, with church attendance only one time at one church (and that was Unitarian Universalist, which is not my theology – I love their spirituality, but my Christology is too much a part of me to ever be a UU), I decided to move forward and begin attending a UCC church. I googled it and found one within half a mile of my home – and, as it turns out, both my fellow chaplains happen to be members of this particular congregation. The former Episcopal, who just happened to be preaching on the day I attended for the first time, told me that God definitely played a part in this. The welcome I received that first day was almost overwhelming, and immediately I felt as if I’d been there for years. Ten weeks later, I officially transferred denominations, and now eagerly look forward to serving in parish ministry in the UCC. It may sound abrupt, but it's been decades in the making.

When I first heard the call to ministry, at age 12, I struggled with it because I thought nobody would take a girl like me seriously. The second time I heard the call, in 2002, I spent a lot of time in discernment, to be certain that the path I followed was the one God meant for me. I have high standards, which showed clearly when I went through the required psychological assessment before candidacy. That’s not a handicap, in my opinion – it merely means that I want to represent my faith tradition well. During this discernment time, I asked a minister in my presbytery, who worked with university students, some advice once I realized that seminary was my path. Jason told me something that I’ll never forget – and which I’ve passed on to others in preparation for the ministry, as well. It doesn’t matter whether you’re theologically conservative or theologically liberal. What’s important is that you be able to justify your stance Biblically and theologically. For that reason, he strongly advised me to choose a seminary with the theological and educational ntegrity to respect my views, even if said views are not part of the majority. As a graduate of Princeton Theological Seminary, the granddaddy of Presbyterian seminaries, Jason was very complimentary toward its program, but he also affirmed that my personal preference – McCormick Theological Seminary in South Chicago – was an excellent choice, as well. I visited MTS a few months later as a prospective student, and was invited to a party that evening at Ben’s apartment; he was two years ahead of me in his studies. Though I didn’t mix easily with others at that time, he and his friends made me feel very welcome. Less than a year after we spoke, I gave up my job, my home and my comfortable way of life and moved to Chicago to begin my seminary training. And so it was that about a year after that, Jason left Arizona and moved to Pennsylvania with his wife (also a Presbyterian minister) and two children; his wife was to pastor a large church while Jason made the decision to leave campus ministry and support his wife as a house husband for a while. The university put out their information form seeking Jason’s replacement as the Presbyterian liaison to campus students, and in the end they chose Ben, who now lives with his wife Gretchen (also a Presbyterian minister!) and their child about two miles from where I used to live a very solitary existence. The symmetry in this is very fitting, I think. Jason told me to be able to represent well, both Biblically and theologically, and his eventual replacement Ben – who I met as a result of making the right choice to train me to do such – told me to run away with my call, to live life and stop relying on words as a shield. I’ve followed the advice of both men quite well, and it’s brought me to the place I know I will establish the most effective ministry I can.

The UCC’s official motto is that they may all be one, ‘they’ referring to all people who believe in God. It expresses part of my foundational theology as clearly as it can, and I know that both Jason and Ben would be happy to know that at last I’ve found my niche. After all, as we know, in all things God works for the good of those who love God, who have been called according to God’s purpose.

Pastoral Identity

One of my favorite films is “Catch Me if you Can,” directed by Steven Spielberg and released in 2002. For those who haven’t seen it, it’s the true story of a teenage runaway who became the most successful con artist in US history,, posing as an airline pilot, a doctor (chief resident of a pediatric ward, no less!) and a lawyer – all before age 19. In my favorite scene, 16-year-old Frank (actor Leonardo DiCaprio) is walking down the street in New York City wearing a pilot’s uniform, smiling smugly at the stir he causes among the people who look at him with respect instead of dismissal – all because of the uniform. He’s no longer just plain old Frankie; he’s a Somebody. I was strongly reminded of this scene the first day I wore a clerical collar.

I’d been told by my fellow chaplain Barbara, who always wears a collar, that this would be noticeable. More people will smile at you, she said. They’ll acknowledge you with a nod and perhaps even a greeting, rather than the usual brief eye contact and then looking away. What she didn’t say – and I suppose should have occurred to me, given the rich Catholic history in the Crescent City – is that some people would not only not smile, they’d take issue. One man was clearly taken aback, but said nothing. An elderly woman’s lips pursed as if she’d just sucked a lemon wedge. If I could read minds, I’m certain hers would have said, indignantly, “How DARE you wear a collar! You’re not a man, and that shirt – it’s, it’s GREEN!!!! (very true; it’s a deep earth green to advertise my status as an environmental activist)”. The funny thing was when two co-workers were complaining about a screw up (and they had legitimate cause to harp on it, from what I heard), and one muttered “Jesus Christ!” in disgust at the end of a long diatribe. The other dug him in the ribs, motioned to me and made a ssh! sound with a finger to his lips. What stands out most is my supervisor’s comment when she saw me with a collar on for the first time: “If that’s the only way you can find your pastoral identity then you’ll have a problem.” These reactions did not offend me – they only offered food for thought, and alternately made me confused, amused and thoughtful. Was it only a collar that gave me a sense of authority as a pastor, I wondered? Did I feel less as if I had to prove something when I wore the collar, because the collar spoke for me?

When I started considering this, I recalled that one day when I was on-call chaplain for the afternoon, I was called to the NiCU to meet with a couple who had been told that their newborn daughter had a congenital problem which would necessitate her being on a ventilator for the duration of her life. The doctor offered them the choice of this limited existence or withdrawing medical care, allowing her to pass away peacefully within a short period of time. When I entered the consultation room, they were grieving heavily, clearly in need of support. It seemed fairly obvious from the time we started talking that they would make the decision to withdraw care, but as devout Roman Catholics they wanted first to have their daughter baptized (by their parish priest, not a hospital chaplain) and for the extended family to meet her. I drew on my understanding of Catholic theology when I prayed with them, and for the first and only time in my life I referred to the Virgin Mary in my prayers. Later, in group, I told my fellow chaplains that I felt extremely uncomfortable with it, and they said I shouldn’t ever feel pressure to do something that doesn’t sit well with my own theology; that when I have real pastoral authority I won’t cave in to someone else’s beliefs. In retrospect I realize that I’ve had a sense of pastoral authority all along – the issue is that it’s still integrating itself into who I am as a person. The discomfort was felt by Missy the Protestant Christian; Missy the chaplain has no regrets and feels entirely comfortable with what she said in that prayer. I also recall that the first day I wore a collar, I met with a 40-something patient whose lupus had acted up; she was tired of fighting the back-and-forth battle. Without hesitation, I stretched out my hand, touched her shoulder and prayed for healing. Usually when I pray, I ask for healing, but in a different way – I ask for the Spirit to work through the staff as they try to identify the problem (a very Reformed Tradition way of looking at it). Did I feel as if the collar somehow added to my authority, I wondered afterward – was there a sense of entitlement? No. It was natural and spontaneous, and the collar I was wearing was not part of the equation except as an outward signal to the patient that God sent a representative to express concern for her. That I used different words this time only meant that I look at the healing process through more than one lens when I offer prayer. After all, God speaks to us in a multitude of ways.

I think that’s the real function of the clerical collar – it’s not to point out, “hey, look at me, I’m special ‘cause God chose me to be a pastor!” (I’m not even sure I’d use the word ‘special’ in reference to the ministry) but to remind us of God’s presence in our lives. God cares enough to send this reminder when we’re grieving, when we’re hurting, when we’re angry over something we can’t control. The authority God gives to me as a pastor comes from God’s own self, not from a collar, and the identity I’m forming within it is far more communal than it was before I began the long journey toward submitting everything to God as I expressed so well in words but struggled to put into practice. It’s a nice feeling, this sense of owning my own identity within my function as a pastor. I don’t need to use diversions from reality, like Frank did, in order to be believable. And, okay, I have to admit that the drivers who make a habit of letting me cross the street on my bike – some even holding up traffic to let me through – are a nice little bonus. I think God is okay with that, because if that collar reminds someone else of God, and causes him or her to think about his or her own life and how to be pastoral, then it’s a very good thing. It never hurts to let the presence of God announce itself to others in a multitude of ways.