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I grew up with parents who loved to read. Some of my earliest memories include snuggling up to them with a book, or five, beside us, allowing the words to transport us to another world. As I grew older, we would meander through Barnes and Noble, walking out with arms full of books - fiction, non-fiction, biographies, anything and everything. My dad, dismayed by the pace of public education at the time, would pick up reading lists from other school districts for us to work through over the summer before moving on to banned book lists in high school.
When I read, my imagination is allowed to fly free. I don’t need to think about what my to-do list holds or the conversation I just had. Yet, reading is not escapist but interactive as reading invites me to consider different possibilities as options I never considered before. Reading weaves its way into my writings as I speak with others through the written word about authors, titles, and topics that have deeply impacted my spiritual life, which includes fiction and non-fiction books, not just those with spiritual titles or that fit into a specific genre. Every day, I need space to read. Not to read for the purpose of work. But to be surrounded and held by words. It shapes who I am and how I interact with the world. But for many, this doesn’t fit into a spiritual practice unless it is reading a portion of Scripture or a devotional book. But I would challenge that - God doesn’t just speak through certain “holy” books. Instead, reading is a spiritual practice because of the heart that I approach it with. A heart open to seeing God in and allowing the Spirit to stir through the words before me. This can then spill out of me after being transformed by Christ as I interact with others. Reading may not be a spiritual practice for you. There may be a bad taste from past experiences that shade how you show up to reading - or may contribute to you avoiding reading entirely. Maybe the heated discussion around banned books has made you worry more about reading than enjoying it. But what spiritual practice is one that you may not have considered before that God is inviting you to pick up during this particular season?
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I have mixed feelings related to raising my voice to sing. A lot of those feelings trace back to memories. One of my first memories of singing is with a friend from the neighborhood. We would make videos of having a good time and singing popular songs together in pure joy. Somewhere around middle school, that joy was lost. I remember my choral teacher, who could be cruel, especially at the end of the school day, once saying that I looked like a frog when I sang. It wasn't long after that comment that I quit choir.
I wish I could say that my singing experience in the church was also one full of joy—and there were undoubtedly beautiful moments. I remember my first choir director in the church when I was in Kindergarten, a woman who taught me songs of the faith that I still hold in my heart today—and I think of her fondly every time I sing. But I also had an experience with a praise team leader who was so focused on perfection that he would often speak from a place of harshness. I say all of this because it wasn't until I was in seminary that I became comfortable with singing again. Under our choral director's graceful and encouraging leadership, I found my voice as an alto - something I had never considered before. Now, almost a decade and a half after graduation, I still think about what it means to be an alto - defining it in my terms as adding layers of harmony and bringing out the best in others. But if offering harmony to the body as a whole, I also started to find my voice - unencumbered by the comments from my growing-up years that ushered forth a long season of silence. A particular moment in the seminary chapel stands out to me. A colleague and I were cleaning up after a worship service and started to sing across the room to each other - "I'm ready for a change." His tenor voice came from one corner of the room, melding with my alto voice positioned in the catty-corner. We could feel the music echoing through our bodies and spirits. I began to think that while it would be a beautiful song for him to sing in the empty chapel by himself, adding my voice, layers started to emerge that would be missing if I had not added my voice. If we believe that we are better together as the body of Christ, then we believe that we bring out harmony in each other. We believe that something would be missing if we did not each show up and add our voice to the good news of the Gospel. Of course, part of the struggle is that more people want to be the soprano in this metaphor than the alto. The soprano leads the melody and often lets their voice soar to heights within the musical range others could dream of reaching. Or they would rather be so far out of the choir - that they aren't contributing anything to the music because they are afraid they won't add anything. But being an alto offers us a different way - adding harmony. Add the support and structure for the whole piece to be heard differently. What shift in our world would lift the supporting voices? To celebrate them? To encourage them? And what new notes are just waiting to be heard when the whole body comes together in harmony? I recently took part in a funeral service for a deceased life-member of the volunteer fire department. In fact, he was the first junior member and longest serving member in their history. Because he gave so much to his community, the family wanted to be intentional in the way they honored this - especially in the time traveling from the funeral home to the cemetery, about fifteen minutes away.
The oldest grandsons stood at attention atop the firetruck leading the processional. We slowly drove through the streets of a sleepy town, past the fire department where the man had served for sixty-three years. There were firefighters in their gear, standing at attention as a sign of respect for the family as well. Then things went a bit sideways. In order to get from the fire station to the cemetery, we had to enter onto a busier street. We had a processional of two fire trucks flanking about forty cars - headlights and four-way flashers on. And I saw something I had never witnessed before - cars cutting into the funeral procession. Now, I have a bit of grace for this type of behavior when there is a processional on a major highway, especially because cars need to be able to enter and exit. But on a normal, busy street. No. I think what set me off the most was the person who cut into the processional to hastily get to a staudium where a game wasn’t even being played that day. I am someone who tries to rationalize the behavior of people in order to excuse it. I found myself thinking that maybe it was a stadium worker who was going to be late for their shift. But even that could not quell my feelings. Because the truth is, that we have lost respect for the funeral processional. While we may teach people in drivers ed not to interrupt the funeral processional, we are characteristically, too impatient to live into this. But the way that we cut into the funeral processional is also symptomatic of the greater degree that we treat grief in American society - wanting it to go faster so another persons grief is not an incovneice to us. We need to honor the inconvience of the processional line because grief matters. The finitude of life matters. And death will come for us all. Therefore, as we bear witness to each other’s humanness, we need to be interrupted as a sign of respect for life and for death. 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? Clergy please stop saying that “you are too busy” when really you mean that you don’t want to do something or you don’t currently have the capacity to do so. I was speaking to a lay person recently who was being brushed off time and again by her pastor. He would say that he was too busy writing his sermons to speak to her about things pertaining to the church.
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