Waiting

"To wait with openness and trust is an enormously radical attitude toward life. It is choosing to hope that something is happening for us that is far beyond our own imaginings. It is giving up control over our future and letting God define our life. It is living with the conviction that God molds us in love, holds us in tenderness and moves us away from the source of our fear."
-Henri Nouwen

A friend recently sent me this quote and I love it. It reminds me that in this seemingly frustrating hurry up and wait period of my life (Where am I going to work? Where I am going to live post July? Does God really want to use the gifts I think I've been given?) that God is at work even still. Trusting is easier said than done but at least for this morning, I want to believe . . .

The Baptist Tally

There’s nothing that says Memorial Day better than road trips, water and family events. And for me, this year was no exception. I journeyed with my boyfriend for the second “meet the parents” experience (or with him it was more like meet the family clan and the rest of the county as well) to his a rural Georgia hometown. (I loved his family and had a great time with them, just if you were wondering).

It was a six hour road trip to GA from my house. So there was plenty of time for normal conversation to enter the world of random. And if you hang around me for very long sooner or later my interests surrounding my religious profession come out. I know this must sound like the dorkiest topic of discussion, but enter Baptist history lecture 101: Type of Baptists by Elizabeth

The topic of exploring the different types of Baptists actually began between us several months when I first explained to Kevin how diverse the Baptist family truly is. “Did you know” I said, “that there are over 100 different types of Baptists?” We have more flavors than Baskin Robins does, in fact. He was shocked because growing up in the South (as both of us did) it is hard to imagine that there is any other church than the Southern Baptists. The empire that the SBC has built makes it easy for one within it to believe that they are all that exist. But this is not true! And during my time at seminary I have had the opportunity not only to learn all the different ways one can call themselves a Baptist but have studied alongside many flavors of Baptists myself. American, Evangelical, and Cooperative to name a few …

So, once we got off the interstate in Santee, SC and on to 301, the “Baptist Talley” sheet began. It was a game of “Where’s Waldo?” but with Baptist churches. We raced to see who could spot them the fastest. We had no trouble, but it seems that in the rural South churchgoers are predominantly Baptist or Methodist and not much else. While our results are not scientific (I’m sure we probably missed some along the way), this is what we found solely while traveling on 301 on until Statesboro, GA:

Missionary Baptists: 4
Southern Baptists: 16
Free Will Missionary: 1
Primitive Progressive: 1
Full Gospel: 1
Independent/ Fundamental: 1
United: 1

I was most fascinated by the Independent/ Fundamental Church. (It was the church I was most certain would never hire a woman pastor). It seemed to be a large, thriving church that was in the middle of city square. By the name you could easily know that this church believed and sought to live by the 5 Fundamentals of Christianity such as the necessity of the virgin birth, bodily resurrection and deity of Jesus, as well as a literal interpretation of scripture (especially the miracles). While I would never dare step in the doors of such a congregation (for fear that I would be kicked out if I opened my mouth), I was glad that this church was honest with potential visitors about their mission. Authenticity is always appreciated in my book.

So, who said that being a Baptist was boring? While sometimes I think that we have so much flavor that we are a bit confusing to those who try us out (or who attend our church business meetings), our diversity makes us interesting. Thus, it is just a manner of what kind you choose to be.

The Foolish Life

Recently, I have been reading a very captivating book by Timothy Tyson called Blood Done Sign My Name. It is an historical autobiography of sorts set just up the road from me in Oxford, NC in 1970—a time when racial tension was at an all time high during the beginning of real integration in the South. The central plot line deals with a racial riots emerging from a murder of a 23 year old black man and how Tyson’s father, a local all-white Methodist church pastor becomes a voice for reconciliation and justice. (If you are interested in Civil Rights stories, I highly recommend this book, by the way).

Throughout the book, Tyson captures the lives of several fascinating characters. One of these is the town eccentric, Thad, Rev. Tyson’s closest friend. We learn that Thad is a man with poetic inspirations and was once asked by a man for advice about his poetry career. To which Thad gave the following response: “I suppose that only a damm fool is a poet. God knows, he will be personally misjudged, social mismatched, virtually unpaid, and worse than all of that misquoted” (101).

As soon as I read this line, I immediately inserted the word “pastor” into the quote. What do you think? Most are misjudged, experience social angst, receive less money than they are worth each month and sometimes misquoted even by members of their own congregation.

But then my mind traveled this quote that I remembered hearing sometime in my past: “A man is not a fool to loose what he can not gain.” (I’m not sure who this is by… maybe Jonathan Livingston? If you know, let me know).

So, while we may be foolish for choosing such an insanely unvalued position in society (at least when there is not a wedding or funeral to do), the crazy work of pastoring is foolish for a good reason. It is abandonment of self to God. Hoping that somehow amidst the madness of the thing we call church, our lives can participate in the coming of the kingdom of God. And this is no foolish endeavor.

One Long Night

I haven’t been sick a lot in my life. Nor have I ever had surgery (except pulling my wisdom teeth in high school), so I know I have no grounds to claim what ailments are among the worst. But, I have to say that the throwing up virus has to be at the bottom of the list among the more common sicknesses. And I had this plague over the weekend . . .

It all started innocently when my friends Abby, Anna Kate and I were touring Historic Beaufort, NC last Thursday night after spending a couple days at the beach. We found a cute little tavern by the water in which to dine. It even had a great guitarist playing as we ordered. The overall mood was delightful. But, when it came to ordering I couldn’t quite make up my mind and ended up settling for the most random meal… a cup of chili and an order of hushpuppies. What I was thinking I am not sure because not only do these menu items not fit a summer climate but they are down right gross together. However, I ate up thinking the chili tasted great.

But I was still hungry after realizing I ordered only a cup and not a bowl, so I proceeded to petition my friends to stop at Dairy Queen on the way back to our hotel. I was craving the “Monster Blizzard” I had seen 50+ ads for on t.v. in the past three days. Chocolate soft serve mixed with chunks of cookie and m and m’s. I could hardly wait to taste this treat!

It was great until I was half way done and started to feel disgusting all over. And as the night went on, as each hour passed I felt progressively worse. Until I threw up three times between the hours of 4 and 8 am the next day. As I sat there and stared at the ceiling for hours on end, I pondered how food, the substance that I loved so much on most days, had become of Satan? Even the food ads on tv commercials seemed as bad as acutally having the item before me. And I wanted nothing of it! So, during these wee hours, I concluded that stomach ailments are awful as they distort our precious favorite foods into becoming our worst enemies. So wrong.

Yet, my friends are saints for pulling back my hair and taking out the trash as I thrashed in the bed. Besides loosing a night of sleep thanks to my commotion, they even gave up the savored beach hours to drive me home. So, while throwing up sucks, only true friends stay around when it happens—which is a good memory to take from our trip to the Caribee Inn. Besides their kindness, the long night of Thursday would have no redeemable moments.

A Family Journey

I was recently asked by the editor of Baptist Women in Ministry of North Carolina to write an article for their newsletter about how my call to ministry has shaped my family. Considering the fact that my dad is also a Baptist minister, it has been one hell of a ride (that keeps going) . . . While the tale below may sound rosey at the end, things are still interesting with him. I am going home for Father's Day weekend and I wonder if my dad will ask me to preach?? Patience seems to be always necessary when dealing with families in general.

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I wasn’t supposed to claim my father’s profession. I didn’t see it coming at all. But, now I’m in the “family business” and Baptist preacher myself. As I’ve journeyed over the last three years of seminary, I haven’t been alone. My family and friends have come with me. I have been shaped by their journeys and I theirs, particularly with my father.

It all began when I was at home during my first fall break of divinity school. I sat my parents down one October afternoon and uttered these scary words: “I believe God has called me to be a pastor.”

Much to my surprise, my dad and I had a falling out that day. He left the house mad, saying he couldn’t support my calling publicly in light of the Southern Baptist Convention's position on women in ministry. I ran to my room crying calling any female ministers I knew, asking for their encouragement. My mom tried to comfort me saying, “You know it just might take your dad the three years you’re in seminary to accept your call. Give him time. He’ll come around.”

In those awful moments and the weeks that followed, I knew despite our theological differences my dad and I could find common ground. I knew he could teach me how to baptize and lead weddings and funerals. I wanted to preach (not just “speak”) in his church’s pulpit. My gut told me my dreams were too lofty… this might be a battle I would fight for a long time.

But, my wise mother was indeed right. My dad needed time. Before ingrained stereotypes can be transformed, it often takes the patience only a loyal relationship can have.

With my dad, acceptance unfolded slowly and gradually. It began with the first pastor gift I received from him. He gave me a Concordance the following Christmas with a note in the front saying he hoped it would be useful to me in my ministerial life.

Then, in May, my beloved grandmother died. My dad was assigned pastoral duties at the graveside. He asked me to read scripture and pray. He taught me where to stand at the casket. It was my first funeral and we did together.

The next October while home yet again over fall break, my dad asked me to lead the Sunday night service. While dad was not yet using the “p” word, I preached my heart out. And much to my surprise, I was received with open arms by a Southern Baptist Church in the middle of Alabama. By congregational request, my dad agreed to invite me back again sometime (which he has since done twice).

This April, my work-a-holic father did the unthinkable: he took off a Sunday to come to the church where I was the pastoral intern. I preached. And, afterwards my dad said, “That was the best sermon I’ve heard from you. Billy Graham says: Anne is the best preacher in their family. And if he can say that, I say you are the best preacher in ours.” It was quite a Hallelujah moment we shared in Goldsboro, NC that day.

There is no doubt my father has being forced to grow because of God’s call on my life. I feel proud to have helped and thankful for the work of the Spirit of God in his heart. But, I would be remiss if I didn’t say that I’m changing too. It has been an upward journey for all of us.

How easy it is for us as female ministers to write-off our more conservative family members and colleagues as people who are ignorant or incapable of change. But, if we trust in a God who says all things are in the process of being made new, there is no one we can label as eternally against women in ministry. God just might use the examples of our lives to influence others about the giftedness of all people. This is the mystery of grace. Who knows what is in store for people like my father in the years to come? At the rate he is going, he might just want to be on BWIM’s board one day soon!

Gotta Love Gilmore

Have I mentioned before that my apartment has a name? Since I moved in last fall, the place I live is affectionately called the Baptist Palace. Both my roommate and I are Baptist ministers in training soon to be the real thing in the months ahead, so our apartment is appropriately designed to reflect our heritage. To describe the fullness of my abode in words would not do it justice, so I’ll save the imagery for those who visit.

But, one essential element I can mention about life in the Baptist Palace is the constant viewing of Gilmore (The tv show Gilmore Girls that is). Over the last year, my roommate enrolled me in Gilmore education which entailed watching all five pass seasons on DVD in consecutive order as our schedules allowed. With a few episodes to go, I will have seen every Gilmore ever made. If this was not enough, Tuesday night at 8 pm residents and guests of the Baptist Palace have a weekly date with the tv, so to watch the current 6th season. Especially when a new episode on, it is serious business. No one moves or talks unless it is a commercial. And no phone calls are made or received. It is not a game (just ask my boyfriend, Kevin… he knows not to call between 8-9 on Tuesday nights and finds that when he comes to visit Gilmore is almost always on when he arrives). Are we obsessed? I guess so.

I came in late on the Gilmore mania around here. It was a part of the life in this apartment for a year and a half before I came. Jenn and Abby discovered it when they needed something to look forward to instead of their plan to drop out from seminary. The main characters, the mother/ daughter combo of Loralai and Rory Gilmore became a part of their lives along with all the other zany characters found in the fictional town of Stars Hallow, CT. Jenn said she felt like sending them a wedding invitation when she married last May. Abby was Rory for Halloween. And I am grieving thinking about the fact that I do not own a single season when I move away from the Baptist Palace in two months.

Even though you could call our obsession a sickness, I believe that everyone needs a “Gilmore” type activity in their life even if it is not a t.v. show. A mindless happy weekly event, something that you bond with your friends about, a theme to have get-togethers with like minded folks . . . for these are the things that help us get through the more crazy times of life. They bring us comfort when we need to escape the intensity or strangeness of our own lives, refreshing us to start all over again the next day. It is something to look forward to after long days of work.

So, I know that I might sound boarder line heretical in comparing Gilmore to the attributes of scripture and prayer and all of that stuff which we are taught brings us closer to God, etc. And, I’m not knocking traditionally holy activities (I need these in my life). But, I do want to declare Gilmore’s holy capacities. It has helped to build a community of friends over the last two years, it has kept several empowered ministers to be from dropping out of seminary and it has sustained the Sabbath practice of the residents and guests of the Baptist Palace (by giving them a reason to stay on the couch for longer periods of time). Gilmore is good for the soul.

So, do I have any other Gilmore fans in the audience?