Pride is one of those words that I struggle with in my bones as a pastor. I grew up in a home where my parents were not shy about telling my brothers and me that they were proud of us and that pride was not singularly tied to accomplishments. They were proud of how we treated others, lived into who we were created to be, and showed up in the world. I grew up in an extended family, where my maternal grandparents were a staple of our lives and not only said they were proud but showed it - pulling out pictures to show their friends of our latest band concert, game, play, or dance recital. There wasn't a shortage of the word pride, nor was it in any way tied to the concept of sin - in my mind, there were different buckets between good pride and pride that may distract and lead me down a road of self-importance. 

So imagine my surprise when preaching at one of my small congregations, and I said that I am proud of the relief work that my denomination engages in, collectively, during times of natural disaster, only to have a gentleman start shouting at me that I was sinning by saying the word "proud" from the pulpit. There was some scripture quoting as his voice raised, leaving me without words before I finally said, "Let's go to God in prayer."

This man was wrestling with some deep wounding within his own life, and the life of this congregation, but his words continue to be ones that I wrestle with years later. Is it wrong to feel a sense of pride in the qualities of ourselves or others that are God-given? I don't think so. It is also not lost on me that one of the definitions of pride found in the dictionary is conscious of one's dignity. 

When my parents and grandparents said they were proud of me, they affirmed my dignity. When someone says they are proud of how our church shows up in the community in which we are located or that I'm their pastor - they are making a statement about dignity. Yet, for far too long, there has been this convoluted idea that all pride cometh before the fall, and as a result, we have stripped away people's dignity. 

I don't need people to tell me they are proud of me to live into being a pastor. I don't show up in other areas of my life and pour out my heart for accolades. And yet, there also needs to be an acknowledgment of the profound harm that the institutional church can inflict when we adopt the attitude that boiled out of my congregation members that day. We do not have the right to use the idea that we should not be proud people to diminish others' dignity. 

​Pride and all of its nuances may be something that I have struggled with my whole life, but for this moment in time, I know this - God is the giver and restorer of dignity, and any time that my church can show up and remind people of that, I am a proud pastor. 

I recently met with a mentor who I deeply trust to speak truth into my life. During the meeting she said something that I have been wrestling with: “Michelle, did you notice that you were ‘mother’ in the group.”

I have to admit that my first reaction was to bristle. 

I was never one to want to be a mom growing up. I played with baby dolls, but just as much as I played with dinosaurs. I didn’t spend time thinking of children’s names. I celebrate with my sisters who did spend time thinking about these things and find such deep joy and meaning in their children. I just knew, from a very earlier age, that wasn’t me.

So when my mentor named my identity as being the mother in the room, I wanted to give all of the reasons I shouldn’t be seen as a mother, starting with the fact that this was not an identify that I ever claimed. I don’t particularly see myself as nurturing. I’m certainly not good at showing unconditional love or being patient. 

But as I started to list all of my aversions to what she was saying, she gently stopped me and said, “No, Michelle, people look to you to lead with wisdom.” To lead with wisdom. Those words stopped me in my tracks.

What a beautiful and expansive view of mothering. Mothering not as being solely connected with bearing or raising children, as profound as that call is. But mothering in the way that I lift up on Mother’s Day each year - that some people are called to be spiritual mothers. 

With this realization I was able to name the qualities I do have that align with mothering - from loyalty, to humility, empathy, attentiveness, and teaching. By able to see these qualities as part of who I am, in all of my wholeness, I was able to reframe mothering from something that I could never do to part of who I am. Something I would never have noticed without my mentor’s words. 

We all have words that hit our heart and head. Those words that redefine our understanding of our very being. While I am still wrestling with the implications of this noticing from my mentor, I am thankful for her wisdom. 

​What is your understanding of mothering and how does it effect your vocation and identity as a pastor?

Understanding human life, I see each person as a tapestry of stories, some concealed
within the heart, that unfold over time. Yet, one of humanity's gravest sins is our failure to
cherish each other's sacred narratives, opting instead for quick judgments and dismissals. 
All this came to mind a few weeks ago when my church was going about the ordinary
springtime activity of getting bids for lawn care. We have two properties - the church and its
surrounding ground and the parsonage I live in, which is about fifteen minutes from the church.
While the trustee chair told those seeking bids that it was solely for the church, as we had
alternative arrangements for the parsonage, I was interrupted during a Zoom meeting by the
persistent knocking of one of the landscapers at my front door asking if this property was to be
included in the bid. 

When I explained that it was not, he looked with disdain at the grass, which had grown
relatively high due to an unusual amount of rain, and asked, "Are you're just going to let it look
like this?"

Admittedly, community can be challenging, and relationships in my context are not
always smooth. However, as a pastor, part of my calling is to be the custodian of people's sacred
stories. I often bear witness to struggles and blessings that others may not readily perceive.
Consequently, I am fiercely protective of the individuals in my congregation and their delicate
narratives.

Very rarely do I pull out a voice of authority, but that day, in the face of the palpable
judgment, I said with all clarity and conviction that yes, we were going to leave the lawn like this
because the person who volunteers to cut it for the church just lost his son-in-law, who was in his
30s. And in the face of death, we believe in the abundance of grace. 

Was my response harsh? Perhaps. But it effectively conveyed my point - refrain from
judging the grass when you're unaware of the story behind it. Yes, this gentleman was attempting
to expand his bid, a motive I fully comprehend. However, beneath what he perceived as unkempt
and unruly grass lies someone's sacred story. In this instance, it was a tale of unimaginable
heartache and grief. 

Part of the vocation of a pastor is to be the listener to and conveyer of sacred stories,
which are not just held within the pages of Scripture. We hold the Bible to be the Living Word
because, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, it profoundly speaks into our lives. But it is by no means
the only sacred story. If we believe that our lives are sacred, then our stories matter to God.
When I write communion liturgies, one of my favorite lines is about God scooping the dust of
the earth and breathing the very breath of life into it, thus making us sacred and treasured. 
Therefore, part of the clergy's role is to tell stories that cut through the face of judgment
with the truth of our belatedness and sacred worth. Telling the stories interrupts the status quo,
dismissing another's sacred truth and holy worth. 
​
How are you living into being a scared storyteller in your context?

“Before you go, what would you prefer to be called?” - an unexpected question posed by a funeral director as I was heading back to the church from a viewing. I must admit that this is a question I deeply struggle with. Titles often come with education and training that may not be accessible to everyone. There are groups of people who are excluded from being called “Pastor” and “Rev.” in my particular denomination. Yet, I also know that sometimes my titles are stripped away from me simply because I am a woman - as I hear colleagues referred to by their full title in deference to their authority. 

I took a deep breath and replied, “Michelle.” If I am honest, this is what I prefer to be referred to, especially by colleagues such as those in the funeral industry. We have worked with each other no less than a dozen times in the year and a half I have been living in my current city. I prefer to be in a situation where titles are set aside, and we see each other as partners in the grief work entrusted to us by those in deep seasons of loss in their lives.     

But in many ways, this is also what I prefer to be referred to by my congregation members. When I am “Michelle” and not “Pastor Michelle,” I feel as if a part of my humanity is restored that can be diminished by the title. If I am seen as Pastor, then it is easier for the weight of expectations, both my and the congregations, to slip in. Expectations around always being available and never saying “no,” which I have struggled with in the past and almost led to burnout early on in ministry.

“No. That seems too informal,” the funeral director continued, not abiding by my suggestion. “Okay about, about Pastor Michelle?” I countered back. I knew how my name had been written for the paper just a few days earlier - the Rev. Dr. Michelle Bodle, so I wasn’t surprised when the funeral director cocked his head to the side with furrowed brows. “But aren’t you ordained?”

Yes, I am ordained, and yes, I do have a Doctor of Ministry degree, but both came at a relational cost. I remember the first person outside my immediate family and Pastor I told that I was sensing a call to ministry that I would be obedient to respond to. I drove hours to a camp where a friend was serving as a counselor for the summer to share this news with him that I couldn’t contain. He essentially told me that I was going to Hell for disobeying God by being a woman in ministry. When I was ordained, one of the congregations I was serving struggled with my ordination because it may mean less time to commit to them. Or when I was pursuing a Doctor of Ministry degree out of love for the church and love for education, only to be told by one of the congregations I served that they didn’t think all that highly of education period or the seminary I was attending. Sometimes, titles come at a high cost. 

“You earned those titles,” the funeral director concluded. Earned seems like such a staunch word. Yes, I put in work, but I sometimes bristle against the authority it brings, both in the community and the church. I have a deep passion for learning that will probably result in a few more degrees, but that doesn’t change who I am - a person trying to follow the Spirit. And that is hard to fit into a title. 

​What struggles have you had around titles, and how do they influence how you appear in the world?

I have decided to give up on telling people how busy I am. I know that seems like an odd statement, but three different circumstances have made me re-consider my stance on busyness the last few weeks. 

First, everyone is busy. I have yet to run across a person who tells me that they are feeling relaxed or that they need to have more things to fit into their schedule each and every day. That rages from young parents to my parents, who are both now retired, but often comment that they are busier now in retirement then when they worked. We live in a world where busy seems to be the norm and I want to play even a small part in breaking through that pattern. 

Second, I have given up on proving to the congregation that I serve that I am busy. Those that understand already get it - they know how I fill my days. And those who think that I am twiddling my thumbs, just waiting for Sunday to come - if they don’t know the job of a pastor by now, me stating that I am busy is not going to change their way of thinking. 

Third, and perhaps most jarring for me, was talking with a classmate recently and he kept leaning into the narrative of how busy he is and how he didn’t really have time for this program. The reality is, this is not a mandatory degree program by any stretch, we are simply here to learn for the love of learning and the sake of those whom we serve. And, we are all busy. Hearing the words “I’m busy” as a response to the question “how are you?” Coming out of someone else’s mouth made me consider how they sounded coming out of mine.

So this leads to the question - now what? How do I answer the question “how are you?” If not with “busy” or “tired”, which if I’m honest is half rooted in truth and half rooted in wanting to prove my worth. If I sat all that aside, how am I. Or maybe more aptly, who I am. 

​Well, that is still a question in process, but one that is worth considering. 

    “No [insert name of Christian Radio Station here]! Don’t steal “You Will Be Found” from  Dear Evan Hanson and say that it’s about Jesus. It’s not. Let musical be, church. You don’t need to claim Broadway for Jesus!’

    This is a text that I sent to a fellow clergy person. Or at least close to the text I sent him - with retractions and more grammatically correct for the sake of writing. 

    I was driving and had the radio on instead of a podcast or music. Mistake. All of the sudden in the midst of praise songs I didn’t know the words to, I recognized the lyrics to a song I recognized. Only it didn’t sound like anything I would listen to. Then I had an “ah-ha” moment - this was a broadway song. Or a rendition of a popular Broadway song - not sung by anyone from the cast. 

    At the end of the song, the DJ came on to explain that this song was called “You Will Be Found” and was talking about how Jesus will find us no matter where we are. 

    No!

    No, church. 

    That is not what this song was about. That is not what Dear Evan Hanson is about at all. 

    And in that one comment from one DJ, a decade of spiritual wrestling came back to me. 

    As the church, we can have get into the sticky place of putting a religious spin on the secular for a variety of reasons. Sometimes we say it is to reclaim something for God. Or we say that something was created with a deeper and truer intent that only we can see - when that is not at all what the song, poem, or story is about. 

    Now do I believe that Christ can be see even in things that are not explicitly Christian? Absolutely. There have been moments reading a fiction book or watching a secular movie where Christ shines through to me. But that doesn’t give me the right to dismiss the original intent of the creator.

    And it certainly doesn’t give me the right to re-brand their creative property for Jesus.

    Sometimes in our haste to witness to the glimpses of Jesus that we see through the grace of the Spirit, we actually do harm. We don’t represent the best of Christ to the world. 

    Not everything needs to be labeled Christian in order to bear witness to Christ, church. 

    Let that sink in. 
​
    And let us appreciate beauty for what it is instead of trying to claim it as ground for the Gospel. 

I recently was accompanying a rather large family in preparing a service to honor their patriarch. I was blessed to be able to get to know him through invitation of his spouse, as he ended up bouncing back and forth between the hospital and rehab facility for several months. While not an avid church attender, he was always open to my pastoral presence. 

    I grew rather fond of him and his dry-wit and quiet faith, as we would see each other at least weekly if not several times during the week as his illness progressed. At the funeral, one of his daughters was sharing that for one of his hospitalizations he asked that I be called before his wife, because he was so worried that I would drive the forty minutes to the nursing home to see him that day just to find out that I wasn’t there. 

     In preparing for his service, one of his grandsons, a ministry student, asked if he could do the eulogy. I sensed that this was a final tribute for his grandpa and readily agreed. Only what came out in the next hour was that he didn’t actually know him very well, due to the private nature of his grandfather that he wasn’t used to as someone of a different generation.

    If I’m completely honest, I was becoming nervous - not just because of the wording choices being made or that this wasn’t how I would speak at a funeral service, but also because he is a ministry student at a school that has not always had the best track-record of lifting up women in ministry. 

    What I wanted to say to the grandson as he talked about his grandpa was “surprising wise” and “surprisingly a family man” before demanding that I tell him everything that his grandpa and I had talked about over my numerous visits (subtexts - to make sure he was saved) was that there is a difference between being a preacher and a pastor. 

    Preachers show up at funerals with their own theological agendas, having alter calls and lifting up scriptures that were important to them and not the deceased or their family. Preachers  can push for the dramatic conversion moment that appears to be more of a notch on their own belt instead of attending to the grief of the people in front of them. Preachers have no concern for the constraints and contexts of the service itself - placing themselves at the center of the day. 

    Pastors on the other hand know that their words matter, but so do their actions. Their showing up and trying to honor the family and their loved one. Pastors are going to continue to walk with the grieving family, week after week, well after the flowers have lost their bloom and the casseroles stop coming. Pastors care for the entire person, including their souls, but also their hearts that don’t know they are going to keep beating in the face of loss. 
 
     As such, pastors need to think about how their words will be heard and received, instead of simply saying whatever they wish. 

     I am a pastor who preaches. I am called to be a pastor who loves and cares and holds space for the grieving. And I will show up fully from that place, without alter calls, unless the family desires it, and holding fast to the Good News that we do not grieve in solitude, but as a community that hopes. 

    And as a pastor, I am often part of the grieving, not at the center, but holding the hands of everyone else who is right there with me. 

​     How do we teach young students how to be not just talented preachers, but wise pastors, with hearts big enough to hold both preacher and care-giver in the role that we have been called to step into?

    “Can grape juice sit out when opened?” - a phrase that I never thought I would be typing into a search engine on a Saturday evening. A new group of communion stewards had been working hard in the kitchen, getting elements prepared for to be served the next day. I had even went down to the kitchen to help find lost linens and to check that everything was going smoothly.

    But when I entered the sanctuary a few hours later for final preparations for the day ahead, there sat the elements - including all of the individual cups of grape juice that had just been filled. Enter my google search. 

    The answer was resoundingly - no, that could be really bad - to my grape juice question. So I scooped up the trays filled with juice cups and headed downstairs to the refrigerators. Only I had just been told that one of the refrigerators was broken and had failed to ask which one. So I took a guess and stuck the juice trays in the farthest refrigerator to the right. 
    You know where this is going, right?

    That “refrigerator” actually ended up being the standing freezer and when I pulled the trays out the next day, they had a nice white frost on the top of them. I still didn’t think about it, until uncovering that lid post-consecration to find that each little cup was frozen. Solid. 

    The woman who was helping to serve and I exchanged a smile as I explained that it didn’t matter how much bread we ate or juice we drank, that this was still the meal that helped us to remember the love of Jesus. I then held up the frozen cup and said that Jesus understands when we make mistakes. 

    What I couldn’t have anticipated was the wide variety of reactions. I was used to not even being able to serve the cup in one of the nursing homes where I led worship post-COVID. I’ve also had juice spill all over folks from time to time. I really meant what I had said about the fact that it didn’t matter how much or how little juice you had - the amount wasn’t the point. 

    Yet, it only took until the next service for rumors to start to work their way back to me about “people” (unnamed of course) being upset about such a colossal mistake. But it also only took that long for people to tell me that we should make mistakes like that all the time, because they appreciated the “Jesus-slushie”, with a wink and a nod.

    The woman who coined the phrase, however, had a much deeper theological reflection that followed. She said that she had to actually hold the cup in her hand, not politely setting it aside and ignoring it until it was time to partake. And in holding it in her hand, she was reminded of the depth of Christ’s love for her and for us all. 

    One little cup. One little mistake. One big reminder. 
​
    I cannot in good conscious promise the people of my congregation that I won’t make a mistake at communion again. But I do know this, Jesus’s love is bigger than any mistake I may make. This isn’t a table for the perfect, but for those, like me, who screw up all the time. Christ’s table, just like his love, is big enough to hold all of that too. And even redeem the “Jesus-slushie”
to break into hearts who are waiting to receive. 

Over the past few days my head and my heart have been returning to one of those pithy means that are shared to try to make a point about Christianity. This one says, “McDonald’s can mess your order up 101 times and you still keep going back… One thing goes wrong at Church and you quit. People just aren’t hungry enough.”

What this saying is missing is the component of safety. For many people, McDonald’s messing up an order is something forgotten or misunderstood. But when you have food safety issues, messing up has health consequences. 

I have a weird issue with digestive enzymes which makes me quite ill if I come into contact with foods I shouldn’t have. There are restaurants I don’t go back to anymore, because they weren’t honest about food prep, refused to accommodate me due to “the integrity of the dish”, or there were simply not things on the menu I could eat. For me, it isn’t about preferences or even being upset, it's about my health and safety. 

While yes, some people do leave churches and places of worship due to small upsets, more often than not I hear about people leaving because they have been deeply hurt. It isn’t safe for them. Theology has been used to cause wounds and justify behavior that harms them or their family. People speak pointedly in ways that demean another’s humanity or life experience. It isn’t a preference or a lack of hunger for community or God’s Word, it’s a safety issue. 

There have been a handful of times I have had to tell friends not to come visit me, either at the Christian college I attended or the churches I have served, because it would not be safe for them. It would cause deep harm. There have also been times that I have been harmed by the churches that I have served - both intentionally and unintentionally. There have even been a handful of instances where worship was not physically safe for me. I don’t deserve a badge of honor because I made the choice to keep showing up, even in instances where I probably shouldn’t have, just as much as those who choose to prioritize their safety and the safety of their loved ones don’t deserve to be villainized. 

​The problem is that if a place is so unsafe that the best option is to not show up, then usually the system/ organization is not willing and able to hear about the ways that they were unsafe. So all that is left is assumptions about why people no longer attend that paint those who have left in a harsh light. Maybe instead of assumptions we could start from a place of curiosity and wonder. A place of humility. Dare I say, even a place of repentance - that allows people to share the vulnerable parts of their stories of where we have done harm, without defensiveness. Maybe, just maybe, that will begin to heal our hearts and our culture of harm, bringing about a new story of justice and repair.