How Could I Plan for This?

I had my life all planned and knew exactly where it was headed. Buckeye born and buckeye bred, one day I would be buckeye dead. When I entered Bowling Green State University, I figured I would graduate and teach little kids how to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” somewhere near my hometown of Hamilton, Ohio. I had it all planned. But that’s not how it went.

Seemingly out of nowhere, I felt this inexplicable, dare I say, bizarre call to become a pastor. I hadn’t grown up a church person and didn’t have a clue what that might mean, but I felt like the Hound of Heaven was never going to give me a moment’s peace until I went to seminary so I might as well do it before it drove me nuts.

From the get-go, God and I were at odds with one another. Maybe it was because, when I began, I had no women role models. Or maybe it was just me. But, as a pastor, I always felt like I was pretending to fill a role. When I put on my collar and my robe, it was like wearing a costume. For the longest time, I wasn’t completely convinced this was who I was or what I should be doing with my life, and I always had one foot out the door, ready to make my exit. No one is as surprised as I am to see that I’ve made it this long. How did this happen?!

If you had followed me through all my calls, you would know me as very different pastor in each of them. In the beginning, I was a young mom and shared ministry with my then husband, also a pastor. I was all about children and education. I wrote children’s songs and Bible School curricula and directed children’s musicals.

I had such a passion for Christian education that I decided to pursue a doctorate. I was sure God was calling me to teach in a college or a seminary. I completed my dissertation and earned my Ph.D. after I had served on the bishop’s staff and then returned to the parish. Timing and the circumstances of my life got in the way and my window of opportunity to move to a teaching position closed. Was this God’s way of keeping me in parish ministry?

When my marriage and my life fell apart, I didn’t know if I could continue as a pastor. I needed time to heal and ended up serving a congregation with a colleague who gave me the space I needed to do that. But, in the process of healing, I felt like something had died inside me. I went to school to do something else, and I publicly announced that I was leaving ordained ministry. It was over.

And then, once again God wouldn’t let me go. We had quite a go round about it until I went on a retreat to sort it all out, and a wise spiritual director said two things to me that changed my life. The first was, “Following Christ doesn’t always have to be hard.” Really? I hadn’t experienced that. I always thought that following Christ meant choosing the hard way.

And second, she told me, “When you love someone, you want what they want. You don’t fight them every step of the way; your wills become one.” And I realized it was time for me to stop doing battle with God. God was not my enemy. God loved me, and all they wanted was for me to love them back. And if God wanted me to be a pastor, I would become a pastor, full hog. No holding back. No fighting it. (This was when I started wearing a full clergy collar. Prior to that I had worn one of the little tab collars. There was symbolism in my switch to a full collar. When I put it on, at last I was saying, “I’m all in.”)

I went to serve at a congregation that should have scared me to death. They were less than a year from going down the tubes if things didn’t change, and yet I knew everything was going to be okay. That’s where I really became a pastor. But I was still a pastor with a plan, and I planned to stay with that congregation until I retired.

God had another plan, and that brought me to Ascension. Those of you who’ve worked closest with me probably realized early on that I’m a compulsive planner. I had all staff and committees writing goals, implementing and evaluating them every year. I carefully built a staff that could handle the transition from having two or three pastors to a solo pastor. I started lay ministries to share the joy and, quite frankly, to make it possible for me to breathe. I gave myself totally to the task at hand. And it was all very organized.

I was in my comfort zone, things were going well, and I had a plan for my time at Ascension. Before I finished up, we would spend some time developing a long-range plan and revising our goals to better reflect where we were as a congregation. And then, after we were squared away on that, we were going to have a capital campaign to reduce our mortgage payments. Then it would be time for me to retire. And I could leave Ascension in a great position for the next pastor. 

It was a great plan. But, of course, I hadn’t planned for covid.

As a planner, it probably goes without saying that chaos is my idea of hell. I don’t do well with chaos. And yet, for some reason, God has given me the gifts to be really good in a crisis. And I rose to the occasion. From the first day until now, the pandemic has not gone the way I expected, and I’ve worn myself out thinking through, what if this happens? what if that happens? planning for one possibility after another. The pandemic has left me exhausted. But I’ve also come to realize that my exhaustion goes way beyond the pandemic. Over the course of a lifetime, I’ve exhausted myself trying to control everything. 

I know there’s some of that need to be in control in all of us. And you might think that I’m telling you all this today as a cautionary tale. But that’s not it.

Looking back on my life as a pastor, I’ve made some good choices and some questionable ones. I’ve often found myself in circumstances that were clearly beyond my control. I’ve had a few heartbreaks. And I’ve experienced some amazingly delightful surprises along that way.

And here’s the thing… Through it all, I’ve never been alone. God has been with me every step of the way. And the way I’ve experienced that is through the people God has sent into my life. I’ve had more of that than any person could ever hope for. Through my family and dear friends, through people in Columbus, Ohio and Marine City, Michigan, and Jamestown, North Dakota, Carrollton and Kilgore, Ohio and Uniontown, Ohio, and the Northeastern Ohio Synod and Charlotte, North Carolina and now here in Towson, Maryland. Thank you for your partnership along the way. I have been so incredibly blessed.

We never know where our journey will take us, and it usually isn’t going to go the way we’d planned. A big reason for that is that we ourselves change so much along the way.

As a pastor, I’ve changed the way I think about so many things: About how to interpret scripture and the meaning of the cross. About Holy Communion and who ought to be receiving it. About the value of children and youth—not for the adults they will one day become, but because of the gifts they bring us right now as children and youth. About gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender folks and what they have to teach us about living authentically as the people God created us to be. About racism that’s blatant and racism that’s latent, and how difficult it is for us white people to see it. I’m not at all the person I was when I began as a pastor. I couldn’t have planned for that. And God isn’t finished with me yet.

I can’t expect to know what’s next, and neither can Ascension. God doesn’t give us a roadmap for what lies ahead. The best we can do is take a step forward and wait on the Spirit to guide us as we take the next step, and the step after that. And trust that when we’re living into God’s reign, our lives have purpose. God has a plan for us and all creation. We may not be able to see what it is, but we can trust we’re a part of it whenever we embody the Jesus way in the world around us: the way of mercy, compassion, and justice.

It's been an honor to do that among you as your pastor. Thank you.

 

 

Switching Pronouns

I’m having a lot of trouble with pronouns these days. I’m not talking about honoring the preferred pronouns someone chooses. That’s a good thing, although for those of us who didn’t grow up with such options, it’s often difficult. But those aren’t the pronouns I’m having trouble with right now. It’s when to use we and when to use you.

For six years I’ve been we with Ascension. I’ve challenged our community in sermons with the pronoun we. I’ve remembered our past with we. I’ve looked forward to our future with we. We have been doing ministry together. We have had some glorious moments. We have worshipped inside, outside, with various levels of precautions. We have weathered some storms. We have butted heads at times. We have laughed often. And we have loved and cared for one another through it all.

But now I am starting to refer to Ascension as you. It usually happens when I’m leaving instructions for something that needs to happen after I leave. And I catch myself in the we. No, we aren’t going to be doing this next week. You are. It’s all very confusing and leaves me in complete liminal limbo—right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

I like the warmth of living in a we-state. You-ville is such a detached, uncaring place to be. My we days are rapidly coming to an end, and I wonder how long it will take me to permanently lose the we. That will be when I start referring to Ascension as them. Ugh. I’m not ready to think about that yet. I’m having enough trouble going from we to you. 

No pigs were harmed in the preaching of this sermon

Can’t you just hear them squealing as they run for the cliff? They plunge to their death and *splat*, the squealing stops.

Poor pigs. It was a horrible way to go. Of course, so is having your throat slit, being butchered, and eaten, so maybe we shouldn’t feel that sorry for them when the demons send them over a cliff.

It’s just a terrible thing to be a pig. I understand they are very intelligent animals. And yet, they’re of no value to us humans until they’re dead. They’re not good for their fur, or their milk. Their only use is for meat. And for the Jews, they aren’t even good for that since Jews don’t do pork.

Perhaps those who watched this bizarre incident had no sympathy for the pigs. But what about the pig owner? Surely, he deserved some restitution. His investment had literally gone over a cliff. Those little piggies were never going to market! 

This is my penultimate sermon for God’s beloved at Ascension, and I’ve been musing a lot about those pigs.  What if I could put some demons inside a few pigs and send them over a cliff for the sake of Ascension? I don’t mean literal demons and pigs, but metaphorical ones. The demons who are oppressing our ministry and holding us back from living into the Kingdom of God that Christ is calling us to be a part of. 

I want to name some of those of those demons for you today as a hope and a challenge for you as you move into a new chapter of ministry. The first demon I wish I could send over the cliff for you is confusing the huddle with the game. 

Our worship ministry is so important for us, and all the people who make it possible by serving on Sunday mornings: altar guild, choirs, ushers, readers. During the pandemic, we’ve learned that our worship ministry doesn’t need to be confined to this space. Many of you are with us today via YouTube.

Our ministry also includes caring ministries within the congregation: eucharistic ministers, Stephen Ministers, Sunday school, and youth group.

And then there’s outreach in the community around us: our nursery school, Christian Service Group, Quilters, food trucks, work with the refugee family living in our parsonage, our partnership with Lutherans in Nicaragua, ACTC, Food for Thought, BRIDGE Maryland, Campus Ministry, and more... It’s a long list of ministries that we’re involved in as a congregation. A big thank you to everyone who gives so much of themselves to these ministries.

But what I've neglected to say as often as I should have as your pastor is that most of the ministry of Ascension doesn’t happen through the programs of our congregation, or even our partnerships in the community. Most of our ministry happens in schools, and hospitals, and banks, and restaurants, corporate offices, and small businesses, caring for family members and neighbors. Wherever you are living out your lives as followers of Jesus, in your homes and the places you work and volunteer, that’s where most of the ministry of Ascension is happening.

What we do here on Sunday mornings serves the purpose of a huddle during a football game. We come together and huddle here in this place. But that’s not where our ministry happens. We huddle to get us ready for the ministries we have on the field. The huddle is not the game. It could change the way we do ministry at Ascension if we stopped confusing the huddle for the game.

Another demon I’d like to put into a pig and send on its way for Ascension is concentrating on the rearview mirror.  

God has given us an opportunity with covid—an opportunity, not to return to the church we once knew, but to allow God to do a new thing through us. I pray that you don’t miss this opportunity God is giving you. And I pray that your next pastor will have what I am lacking right now—the energy you need for this new beginning. I also pray that you aren’t expecting the next pastor to help you return to the way things were before the pandemic—what many people call “normal” as in, “I can’t wait for things to get back to normal." Ugh. 

The more things change and the more uncertain they become, the more we tend to look wistfully in the rear-view mirror. But if you’ve ever driven a car, you know that you can never move forward while you’re preoccupied with looking behind you in the rearview mirror. If you do, there’s a very good chance you’re going to end up driving off the road.

In the months and years ahead, may you move your attention away from the rearview mirror, and instead wait eagerly on tiptoe, trusting that God is doing a new thing at Ascension. Living into the unknown is scary, but it’s the only faithful way to embrace this opportunity God is giving you.  

The next demon I’d like to send over a cliff for you is cutting the head out of the picture. 

You know how sometimes you can take a picture on your phone or camera, and you cut off someone’s head? It all depends on what the focus of our picture is, doesn’t it?

Do we cut the head out of Ascension’s picture? Let me be clear about who the head is in this metaphor. It’s not the pastor. Or the staff. Or Council. Or our nursery school. Or music ministry. Or youth group. Or anything else that may be near and dear to us. Our head is Jesus.

Our primary focus as a congregation is not to offer more programs. It’s not to get more butts in the pews on Sunday morning. To keep the building cool in the summer and warm in the winter. It’s not to increase our offerings or balance our budget. And it’s certainly not to keep everybody happy all the time. It’s always nice when those things happen, but when they become our primary focus, we’re cutting off our head.

When we cut Jesus out of our picture, by focusing on anything else, we are no longer the church. We may be a social club or a service organization, or any number of other things, but we’re not a church.

The most important thing we do when we huddle together is spending time with Jesus. Understanding what he said and taught and did. Allowing him to challenge us. Preparing ourselves to do what he sent us to do in his name. And allowing him to transform our lives.

Jesus who answered the question, “Who is my neighbor” by telling the story of the Good Samaritan. Jesus who told a rich man to give away everything he has to the poor. Jesus who, when the soldiers came to arrest him, told Peter to put away his weapon. Jesus, who says people will know we’re his followers if we have love for one another. Jesus, who calls us to deny ourselves, take up our cross and follow him. Jesus, who will judge us by how we show our love for him—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting prisoners, caring for the sick.

Focusing on Jesus is challenging. It’s easy to see why we might prefer to cut off our head. And that brings me to the final pig I’d like to throw over a cliff for you.

In this pig, I’d like to stuff what I’ll call, clinging to the boat. 

Do you remember the story of Jesus walking on the water? As he approaches the disciples’ boat, Peter asks, “Ooo. Ooo. Jesus, can I do that too?” Jesus says, “Sure, come on out.” Well, Peter steps out on the water, and he’s doing fine until the waves pick up a bit. He panics and almost goes under, but Jesus reaches out a hand to save him. The part about that story that really amazes me is not Jesus walking on water, but Peter actually stepping out of the boat. No doubt, he is petrified, yet he faces his fears and takes a bold step toward Jesus.As disciples of Jesus, we’re called, not to cling to the boat, but to step out in faith.

We’re living in a scary world right now. I don’t know that any of us would deny that. Increasing gun violence, war in Ukraine and elsewhere, fires in the western US, droughts, floods, and other effects of climate change, the coronavirus that just won’t quit, both blatant and latent racism that won’t go away without a whole lot of struggle, the deepening divide between political parties, widening economic disparity, a global refugee crisis. There are so many reasons to be afraid for our future.

The gospel calls us, not to ignore our fears, but to face them, to step out of the boat. This is a time for bravery and boldness. We cannot cling to the boat and follow Jesus. Are you prepared to step out of the boat and follow Jesus? Know that he’s always there to catch us when we fall, but first… we have to get out of the darn boat!

Those are the four pigs I’d like to throw over the cliff for you:

1.    Confusing the huddle with the game

2.    Concentrating on the rearview mirror

3.    Cutting the head out of the picture

4.    Clinging to the boat

Of course, I know I can’t just fling what’s holding Ascension back over a cliff. If I could, I would have done it six years ago when I came to you. 

The Christian church is facing unprecedented challenges in the years ahead. Ascension, like all churches, will come to a time in the future when you will become preoccupied with survival. And when you’re in survival mode, it’s especially difficult to remember who you are and what you’re called to do. You will be inclined to play it safe, confusing the huddle with the game, concentrating on the rearview mirror, cutting the head out of the picture, clinging to the boat. It’s when you’re worried about survival and everything in you says, “play it safe” that you need to do just the opposite and step out in faith. That’s when I hope you’ll think about this sermon. Or maybe think about it whenever you’re munching on a slice of bacon.

I’ve gone a lot longer than usual today because this is my final sermon to Ascension. I need to stop before you decide to stuff me in one of those pigs and send me over a cliff. Next week I’ll be addressing the occasion of my retirement. Today’s sermon is what I want to say to Ascension as I leave you.

You’re entering a new era. So is the world around you. No one knows exactly what lies ahead. I can assure you it won’t be without some pain. I hope you know that. Know also that Ascension has been richly blessed by God with abundant gifts to do God’s kingdom work in wondrous ways. Prepare yourselves for the next big adventure!

Preached for God's beloved saints at Ascension, Towson on June 19, 2022.

 

 

 

 

My Brush with an Emmy Award

Today, this headline popped up in my newsfeed: “Band of Brothers Struck Gold at the Emmy Awards 20 Years Ago.” And suddenly, I was sitting at my desk one evening in Charlotte, North Carolina. No one else was around, the phone range, and I picked up. It was a random man with an even randomer question.

He introduced himself as Erik somebody and told me he was working on the screenplay for a series called “Band of Brothers” coming to HBO. He explained a bit about the plot, that it was something about World War 2. But when he mentioned the name Steven Spielberg, I was suspicious. I mean, if someone were going to prank me about writing a screenplay, wouldn’t they mention Steven Spielberg? Of course they would.

Erik Somebody explained that he was one of many writers who were working on this project. And then he finally got to his question. He was writing a scene that took place at a graveside. The person being buried was a Lutheran, so he needed to know the wording. What exactly would a Lutheran pastor say at the graveside?

Okay. Maybe this was legit. But is this really how people research screenplays for bigtime shows on HBO? Do they just open the phone book, go to Lutheran Churches, and start calling? (Yes, people were still using phone books back then, and I was serving at Advent Lutheran Church, so we were at the top of the alphabetical listing and got a lot of strange phone calls.)

Rather than hang up on him, I decided to play along. I pulled out my Lutheran Book of Worship and read some pastoral graveside verbiage to Erik. He thanked me and that was that.

But then, after he hung up, I realized I hadn’t given him the correct information. I gave him the words I would say at a graveside, but this scene took place during World War 2. That was two service books ago! I quickly searched my bookshelves for the old black hymnal that would have been used back then and called Erik back. After I explained my error and gave him the correct wording that would have been used in the 40s, again, he thanked me, and again, that was that.

I was relieved when I finally learned that Erik hadn't been pulling my leg. There really was a series coming to HBO called, "Band of Brothers" and Steven Spielberg was involved. When it aired, I watched it intently, waiting to see my contribution, but it never happened. It must have ended up on the cutting room floor… if it even got that far.

So, I didn’t win an Emmy. And my contribution was a small one. And it wasn’t even used. But still, it’s the closest I’ll ever get to an Emmy and I’ll take it. I accept this non-award on behalf of the Common Service Book of the Lutheran Church and the telephone book, both now obsolete but not forgotten.

Letting go, moving on... and praying I can do it

In addition to retiring in a little over a month, I’m getting ready to relocate my life. The plan is that I will move to be with my family in Queens, New York. We have talked about this for years and it’s hard to believe that it’s almost time to make it happen. I’m grateful that my daughter, and especially my son-in-law, are okay with this. As a single person, it doesn’t make much sense for me to stay in Maryland or move anyplace else without family nearby. And I’ve always had this longing to live close enough to my grandchildren that I could become a part of their lives, and they would be able to really know me. This is something that neither I nor my children ever had the opportunity to experience, and I want this for Nick and Justin. 

The plan is for us to live together in the same house with a separate space for me where I can have my own privacy, and I won’t be constantly annoying Gretchen and Jon (or vice versa). I can offer an extra hand with the boys, and they will be nearby to help me as I continue to go downhill in the years ahead. (I'm obviously getting the better end of the bargain.) 

Jon and Gretchen have been renting in NY, so this means purchasing a home. Of course, I’m also selling my home in Maryland. That’s been easy. I put it on the market and it sold immediately. But as buyers, Jon and Gretchen have faced one challenge after another since they started looking back in March. They’ve extended offers on a number of houses that have gone nowhere. One was accepted only to have someone else come along and offer more money, and that was the end of that. Right now, they’re moving quickly to get a house they’ve fallen in love with. I’m praying with my fingers crossed as I hold my breath. I hope this is it. I have to say that I’m beyond proud of the way they’ve persisted; they’ve learned a lot along the way and are determined to succeed. 

I’ve also had some reckoning of my own to work through. I always knew that I would have to divest myself of a lot of my possessions to make this move. I began getting rid of stuff during the pandemic, selling some and flat out giving a lot away. But it wasn’t enough. I’m coming to terms with the reality that I’m going from 2000 sf to something more like 300 sf. That means that pretty much everything I own must go. I know a lot of  older people come to this point, if they live long enough, but I wasn’t ready for it quite this soon. I keep telling myself that it’s just stuff, and I will finally have the opportunity to live a simpler lifestyle. Yes, I can do this. 

Throughout my life, it’s been like a death every time I’ve moved, leaving behind my life and the people I loved who were a part of it. It’s a gut-wrenching trauma that I suspect has taken years from my life every time I've gone through it. This time is a bit more than that for me. I’m not just leaving behind a congregation of people I love. I’m leaving behind a way of life, the only way of life I’ve ever known as an adult. As ready as I am, I know it’s going to be hard for me, and a part of me is already grieving. But, on top of that, there’s this moving thing going on. Literally leaving behind tables, chairs, beds, pictures, books, dishes, linens… stuff that I’ve been lugging from one place to another my whole life. It’s a lot to say good-bye to. 

I've also learned, every time I've moved and started over, that resurrection always follows the time of death, and the grieving gives way to joy. I know that's the way it works. I’m praying that I will have the grace I need to let go and enough faith to trust in the gift of new life that always seems to find me on the other side. Experience has taught me that I have every reason to believe my prayer will be answered.

Easter, Marvin K. Mooney, and me

On Easter Sunday, after the dust settled, in a moment of self-reflection, I posted this on my Facebook page: I never wanted to become one of those pastors who doesn't know when it's time to retire. Today began when I put on two pairs of panties. I've never done that before. Then after worship, I went to leave the building and noticed I was still wearing my robe and stole. I wish I could say that I've never done that before, but I can't. This afternoon I watched the video of this morning's worship on YouTube and saw I made the same announcement twice without realizing it. On my final Easter as a parish pastor it has been confirmed for me once again... It's time for me to retire.

Judging from the comments my post elicited, I’m feeling the need to say more. First of all, if you know me, you know that I like to exaggerate in my storytelling. So, regarding the panties, I realized while I was putting the second pair on that I already had the first pair on. I did not wear two pairs of panties on Easter morning. And then, about exiting with my robe on… I didn’t get very far before I realized I was still wearing my vestments. It’s not like I made it to the car. And, regarding the duplicate announcement… Even though I didn’t realize I had already made the announcement about taking home Easter lilies at the beginning of worship, it was still a good idea to say it again just before the benediction. If I hadn’t confessed the fact that I didn’t realize I did it twice, no one would have noticed. And, it was a simple mistake, considering the fact that I hadn’t written it down anywhere and I had a gazillion things to remember on Easter morning. In other words, I might have done the same thing 20 years ago. So, I appreciate all the people who tried to make me feel better by encouraging me to be gracious with myself.

But here’s the thing for me, and the real reason I wrote that post. Although it was the first time I led in-person worship on Easter since 2019, I can still remember how it was back then. And I am not the person I was three years ago. Everything was more stressful this year. Keeping track of the details took more effort. Just getting through it felt like it took everything I had. Perhaps to those who were sitting in the pews, it didn’t seem that way, but from inside my skin, that’s how it felt. 

Prior to Sunday, I wondered if I would be able to make it through leading my last Easter worship without shedding a few tears. In reality, I didn’t even come close; I simply didn’t have enough bandwidth for emotions. I was working too hard to do what I needed to do so folks at Ascension could have a nice Easter. And I gave it the best I had to give. 

Later in the day, reflecting on my experience, it was clear to me that it’s good this is my last Easter as a parish pastor. I don’t say that with any regret or angst. I’ll turn 70 this year. I’ve been doing this for over 43 years now. That’s long enough. And, of course, I’m not the pastor I once was. After I’ve crawled on the floor ironing the wrinkles out of an Easter banner, I need some help getting up. When I do the Easter Bunny Hop with the kids, I have to fake my hops. I sometimes have a brain fart and can’t remember names when I give people communion. And every little thing I do requires a tremendous amount of effort. 

I don’t say any of this with a sense that I’ve somehow been defeated. I’ve spent enough time with old people through the years to know that it’s normal. The affects of aging are going to continue for the rest of my life. And I’m grateful to be alive! (I’m also grateful that I have the ability to laugh at my own limitations.) I suppose what I’m saying is that I don’t need to prove that I’m still young and up to the job because I’m not. And that’s okay.

I keep thinking about a book I read to my kids when they were little, Dr. Seuss’s Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now! All through the book, the narrator is trying to get Marvin K. Mooney to leave, and he won’t go. “You can go by foot, you can go by cow. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go now?” So it continues, and Marvin K. Mooney just won’t go. Until the very end when we read, “I don’t care when and I don’t care how. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go now!” And after begging, cajoling, and demanding that Marvin K. Mooney go, we finally read, “I said go and go I meant. The time had come, so… Marvin went.” 

I don’t deny my limitations as I age. And I don’t wonder if maybe I could hang on for a few more years. Instead, I hope it will be said of me, when all is said and done, that I went out like Marvin K. Mooney. “The time had come, so… Nancy went.”

43 Years Later

Since this is the last anniversary of ordination I will observe as an active parish pastor, it’s a good time to reflect on what these 43 years have meant to me. On the day I was ordained, I was absolutely clueless. I hadn’t a clue what my life would be like and all that would happen in the years ahead. And I hadn’t a clue that I would still be doing this into the 70th year of my life.

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.