In my first call we used mimeograph machines, and address-o-graphs. For single copies, carbon paper did the job. We taught with filmstrips and overhead projectors and thought we were so cool. Of course, all those became obsolete. But the lessons I learned from my first call went far beyond that. I’ll forever be thankful to the people of Trinity in Jamestown, ND, who patiently walked with me as I figured out what it meant to be a pastor.
It made sense that Trinity was the church to call me because they were progressive, always the first to take on new ventures. When I came to serve them, I was the first ordained woman in the ALC to serve in my district (and state). At the time, I don’t think I fully appreciated the significance. I was too busy trying to figure out what it meant for me to be a pastor. Particularly, with virtually no women role models, I struggled to understand how to be a woman and a pastor. I was also keenly aware of the fact that everyone was watching me to see if I succeeded or failed. If I failed, it would be a set-back for those who followed me. In the early years, that may be what kept me going.
I married another pastor while we were both in seminary, and we served our first two congregations together. We each worked half-time so we could spend the other half taking care of our two children. It worked for us, and it was a great way to parent. However, I knew that being part of a clergy couple in the same church made it easier for me to get my first call. It actually came sooner than we wanted it to. Our first child, born while I was typing my final paper of seminary, was only 6 weeks old when we had our interview. Other women who were seeking their first call had to wait far too long.
I knew that being attached to my husband, also a pastor, made it easier for people to accept me. But it also made it more difficult. I didn’t feel like people took me seriously, and in many cases I was viewed as a helper for my husband. I became painfully aware of this in my second call. After serving a progressive congregation in North Dakota, I moved back home to Ohio to serve a church that was clearly stuck in the 50s. It was oppressive for me and I had to get out.
So I went to grad school. It was something I had been thinking about for a while because I had a passion for Christian Education and my seminary training in the field was so lacking that I wanted to change that. But, in all honesty, when I went to graduate school to get my PhD, it was as much about survival as anything else. During that time, I also served an interim, which kept me in parish ministry enough to know that I still loved the work.
When I was ABD (all but dissertation), I served as Assistant to the Bishop in the newly formed Northeastern Ohio Synod at the very beginning of the ELCA. I had the honor of working on an amazing staff with people who became like family to me. But it was like an ill-fitting shoe; I was never comfortable in the role. I am not a company person, and I found myself in situations where I had to speak for someone else about ideas that I didn’t always agree with. I knew this was not a long-term commitment for me.
While working with a congregation in the call process, I became convinced that God was calling me to become their next pastor. I gave them a strong list of candidates to interview and told myself that if they didn’t work out, I would go to the bishop and explain to him that I would like to be considered, along with my husband. And that’s where I went next. It was a wonderful congregation, we were growing by leaps and bounds, and I really thought I’d stay there until I retired. (By the way, this is also when I finished my dissertation on “Nurturing a Social Consciousness Through Church Education” and earned my PhD. Although the circumstances of my life never allowed me to teach Christian Ed in a college or seminary, this study was an important part of my ministry and led me to where I landed.)
And that’s when the shit hit the fan. Long story short, my husband was guilty of sexual misconduct and what felt like my time in Camelot came to an end. I stayed on at the church, and we divorced. But then, I made the biggest mistake of my life—I quickly married again. To say the marriage was a disaster is an understatement, since he was already married to someone else at the time. I still feel great sorrow over the turmoil I brought to the people of Advent in Uniontown, Ohio. I dearly loved them, and they didn’t deserve to be a part of the upheaval my ex-husband, and then I myself, put them through.
I knew I needed to move someplace where an entire synod didn’t know the sordid details of my life. So, I moved to the place I loved to vacation and always thought I would retire, North Carolina. First, I served the good people of Advent in Charlotte and worked with Pastor Dick Little, a man who changed my life in so many ways. It was a perfect place to recover and heal from the trauma I went through in my former call. When it became apparent that I had outgrown my call at Advent, I still felt like something inside me had died, and I couldn’t imagine ever having the emotional energy I needed to love and serve another congregation. So, I made the difficult decision to leave parish ministry. I began working on a master’s in teaching ESL while I continued to serve the church part time.
I was all but gone. I had one foot out the door and the other foot, too, except for one pinky toe. But God wouldn’t let me go. One thing led to another and I was called to serve the incredible congregation of Holy Trinity in Charlotte. Like me, they were hanging on by a thread. I knew I had nothing to lose. But I also really wanted them to make it, and I believed I was the person who could help them.
I had watched them from a distance since moving to North Carolina eight years earlier. It was during the time when our denomination was struggling to figure out how we would receive the gifts of LGBT folks into the life of the church, and for many years Holy Trinity was the one little shrub voicing the call for full inclusion surrounded by a forest of trees shouting, “No!” While they were struggling to survive, other congregations were pointing to them saying, “See, that’s what happens when you welcome gay people into your church.” I wanted to bring them to a day when other congregations were no longer saying, we don’t want to become like Holy Trinity to the day when they were asking, “Why can’t we become more like Holy Trinity?”
During the eleven years I served there, we came to that day. When the ELCA churchwide assembly voted to ordain people in same-gender committed relationships, I was there. It was an absolutely glorious day for the church, for me, and for the people of Holy Trinity. And it was repeated a few years later when a court in North Carolina allowed same gender folks to legally marry. I had the honor of being one of the plaintiffs in that case and the celebrating afterwards was through the roof. After illegally marrying couples for years, I became a marrying machine and lost track of the number of couples I married after it became legal for them to do so. The first was a group of five couples who were featured on the front page of the Charlotte Observer.
If it had been up to me, I would have remained in North Carolina until the day I died. I lived in Charlotte longer than I have lived anywhere, 18 years. But during that time, my daughter Gretchen, who had been teaching and studying in North Carolina, moved to New York City. I understood why she had to do it, but emotionally, I felt abandoned. I had no family nearby. Then came Nicholas, grandson number one. And Gretchen talked about a grandchild number two. She landed a good paying job teaching theatre in the NYC public schools, and I knew I was rarely going to see my grandchildren if I didn’t get closer.
Right about that time, out of the blue, a congregation asked to interview me. Never wanting to slam the door in the face of the Holy Spirit, I said, sure, it doesn’t hurt to talk to them. Well, in the process I had to fill out my mobility papers. I had forgotten what a pain-in-the-ass it is to do that. Ugh! After I spoke with the call committee that started everything, I knew they were not the call God had in mind for me. So, I thought, what the heck, I spent all that time filling out the paperwork… I’m just going to draw a line from Charlotte to NYC and any synod that touches that line, I’ll have my mobility papers sent. Barely a week later, I was contacted by the Delaware-Maryland Synod. They had a congregation in mind.
Now, you need to know that by this time I was 63 years old, and I thought, no congregation is going to seriously entertain the idea of calling a pastor my age, not a congregation that is as vital and vibrant as Ascension in Towson, Maryland. Every step of the way, I thought it would never happen. And much to my amazement, Ascension called me to be their pastor. Now, here I am, wishing that I had come here when I was much younger so that I could stay longer, but knowing that it’s time for me to retire, and it’s time for Ascension to begin a new chapter with its next pastor.
I do love the people of Ascension and am thankful to finish my time in active ministry with them. Pandemic and all, it has been a very full ministry. I’m often reminded from leaders of the congregation that they brought me to Ascension to help them change. And they tell me I've done that. Perhaps there have been times when I pushed a bit beyond the comfort zone of some, but I did what they called me to do, and I trust that, after recovering from my ministry and maybe even benefiting from it, the congregation is in a very different place than they were when I began my time with them. I also trust that next pastor will bring the gifts necessary to lead Ascension into the future God has for them.
When I was young, much of what I did centered around my family. My congregations knew my husband and my children. I concentrated a lot of my ministry on children. When I moved to North Carolina, I set out on my own, and I became a different pastor entirely. My later congregations wouldn’t recognize that pastor I was in North Dakota and Ohio. I have served seven different calls, and in many ways, I have been a different pastor in each. I’ve changed, depending upon the phase of my life as a woman, my experience, and the circumstances of the people I’ve served. But I’ve also been who I am for over four decades.
When Barbara Brown Taylor said, “... being ordained is not about serving God perfectly but about serving God visibly, allowing other people to learn whatever they can from watching you rise and fall”, I thought she was talking about me. That’s the kind of pastor I’ve been throughout my ministry. Love me or hate me, I am authentic. I can’t be otherwise.
That means I am honest. Once while I was serving on the synod staff, a churchwide staff person, who had been around for a long time, confided in me, “Nancy, you are the first truly honest synod staff person I’ve ever met.” It’s the highest compliment I’ve ever received. (And part of why I couldn’t remain in the job.)
The downside of being honest is feeling compelled to speak when I might do better to remain silent. This has improved in my old age, but I often can’t help myself. An adage I adopted early on was: It’s better to kick myself later for saying something than kick myself later for remaining silent. For those of you have worked with me, from seminary up until Ascension, that may explain a lot.
Also, related to honesty, I’ve been very intentional about never preaching something I don’t believe myself. At times, this has been difficult, like when I’ve been going through a faith crisis and I’m not sure what I believe about God, or even if I believe God exists. (Yes, I go through those dark times just like everyone else!) I’ve done some tap dancing in the pulpit from time to time, but I’ve never said something I don’t believe. I will not lie to people. Especially about matters of faith.
My compulsive honesty also applies to being transparent. If I’m struggling, I let people know. If I’m so filled with love that I think I’m going to burst, I let them know that, too. If I have messed up, I confess and ask for forgiveness. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I’ve always borne my soul in public. Some things are best kept private, but I have been open about my humanness. As Barbara Brown Taylor says, other people have been able to learn whatever they can by watching me rise and fall.
That’s not to say that I don’t have regrets, because I do. I’ve done the best I could with what I have to give. But I’ve often been working against God. I’ve made decisions that weren’t wise. I’ve said and done things that have hurt people. I could spend a lot of time wallowing in all the mistakes I’ve made, and sometimes I do. I still can’t forget the night I was supposed to have dinner with a prospective member family, I got distracted, and completely forgot about it. Terrible! I have to acknowledge my regrets, forgive myself for being human, and move on or I’ll get stuck in all the things I’ve done and left undone, and I won’t be good for anyone or anything.
As I think back on my years in ordained ministry, I am so grateful to be a part of an adventure that I never could have imagined. There have been moments I wouldn’t change for anything. Listening to children sing musicals I’ve written, walking hand-in-hand with Dr. William Barber for a Moral Monday March, bringing a live sheep into Christmas Eve worship (and the ensuing chaos), baptizing a naked baby boy who proceeded to “baptize” me back, recommending Elizabeth Eaton to a call committee in Ashtabula, Ohio, filling the pews at a struggling country church on Christmas Eve when all of its 12 children sang in the choir, riding in a convertible for the Pride parade as its “Outstanding Ally”, singing the ”Hallelujah” chorus with the congregation on Easter Sunday, being present at churchwide assemblies for all the BIG votes, including the vote to form the ELCA, worshipping outside during the pandemic and being overwhelmed by cicadas, publishing a memoir that a few people actually read, … So many glorious moments to cherish. It’s been a great way to live my life.
Through it all, I hope that the people I’ve served have known that I love them. I always told myself that when I can no longer love the people I serve, it’s time for me to leave parish ministry. And I think that’s what has kept me in it all these years. Now that I am retiring, it’s a bit of a struggle because I haven’t stopped loving them. But now it’s love that’s calling me to leave.
A few months remain between now and my retirement. Just as I could never have imagined what my life would be like when I was ordained at 26, I can’t imagine how it will feel to stand before my congregation for the last time and bless them on their way.
Soli Deo Gloria.
