Listen, you guys. I know there’s big stuff going on. The frankenstorm ate New Jersey, the election is so close that I think Wolf Blitzer’s head is going to pop off (or at least his beard will), and Advent is practically upon us so everyone in the Church world is under about as much pressure as Wolf’s neck veins.
But I am up in arms, and it has nothing to do with any of those things.
Here’s what happened.
On the way into a building for a clergy meeting the other day, I followed a middle-aged female pastor through the parking lot, since I didn’t know where I was going and she seemed to. I had seen her before at some other clergy meetings and intended to speak to her as she kindly held a door for me. But that’s when it happened. She looked me up and down, frowned a tiny, slightly confused frown, and said, “Here you go, sweetie.” Then she continued into the building and spoke to me no more.
I’ve been called sweetie most of my life, having grown up in the South. It’s been used in lovely ways, like when my incredible, probably-more-awesome-than-yours dad texts me and says, “Hey sweetie, how’s your day going?” And it’s been used in derogatory, pedantic ways, like when an older guy a few years ago at a church event clapped me on the back, looked down at me and said, “You’re a little Southern girl from a red state; you’re going to vote for McCain, right, sweetie?”
I expected that sort of thing, to some degree, from that man. To him, it might or might not be fair to conclude, I was a child playing dress-up when I stepped into the pulpit. To him, I probably went home and braided my hair into pigtails and painted my cat’s nails. To him, I was not authoritative, or worthy of respect as clergy, because of my age and my gender. And there will always be men like him. And I love him, because God loves him, and because he means no harm.
But I have never expected it from fellow female pastors. Much less relatively young ones. Women who have faced their fair share of funny looks as they stepped into the pulpit or a room full of male clergy in a dress. Women who don’t have to imagine walking a day in my heels because they wear the same ones every day.
But here was this lady, telling me with her body language, her skeptical frown, and her use of the pedantic “Sweetie,” that I was not only not what she expected, but I was- perhaps- unacceptable, even unwelcome.
At the very least it told me that I was an oddity, the bearded lady at the circus—“Come see her for yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, the elusive Young Adult! Never before seen in meetings like this one, come marvel at her blue jeans and funky scarf, her short hair and weird sandals, maybe even catch a glimpse of her playing Words with Friends in the back row!”
Now listen, I recognize that I cannot foist all of my grievances upon this woman’s one utterance and posture toward me—nor do I want to. I do not believe in my heart of hearts that she intended any harm. I recognize that maybe I reminded her of her daughter, and that therefore she meant “sweetie” in a familial, motherly way. I recognize that it’s possible that she was just coming from a funeral of someone my age, and felt emotional seeing me, and “sweetie” tumbled out of her mouth without her ever realizing it.
I have no ill will for this woman. I love her, because God loves her.
But the whole 3-second event brings up something in me, something feminist and young and indignant and loud.
I’m mad at the society that has given me every reason jump to the conclusion that this “sweetie” was an ugly one. I’m mad at the society that nods its head in agreement that I am the Bearded Lady and this is a circus. I’m mad at the society that says that I am wasting my youth, that I would be better off spending my days at a high-powered high-rise job, zipping to the gym before and after work to get thinner so that I can meet and marry a hot guy and have babies and spend the rest of my life trying to have it all, a la Liz Lemon.
This society says that I shouldn’t wear my collar because it makes me less attractive.
It says I should put “I’ll tell you later” on my Match.com profile when it asks for my profession because no one wants to be a pastor’s husband, or worse, boyfriend.
It says that if I’m determined to stay in this job, I’d better get used to being an associate pastor because no church wants a female senior pastor and no man would consent to being a female’s associate.
To that, I say screw it.
In my delightful little 5-member, all-girl, tearjerker Disciple class this week, we read about the law God gave to Moses on the mountain to pass on to the people. We read about how one of the goals of the law was to set the people apart. We read about how God asked certain people to do certain things, like how the Levites were asked to consecrate themselves one way, and the Nazirites another way.
We read that the Israelites were called out, called up, to live a different kind of life than the Egyptians and all the other cultures around them, because they were chosen. We read that God’s people should behave differently than the world tells them to. God’s chosen people should have different values than the world tells us to have. God’s beloved people, whom God calls with God’s own voice, are beholden to God, not to society.
So call me sweetie, I dare you. Tell me I’m undesirable because of my profession and my attire and my haircut. Tell me that I, because I am young and because I am female, am not cut out to be your pastor in a world where most leaders, CEOs, and senior pastors are male and older.
The fact remains true: I am a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ. He is my beloved, and He finds me desirable even if you don’t. If I am wasting my youth, then it is being wasted upon the altar, to God’s glory. And if I never “have it all” like Murphy Brown tells me to, guess what? I already have it all. I know, this is all cheese right now, but hey, I’m just a woman so what did you expect? (#sarcasm)
I try more and more every day to pray as St Francis would pray, over and over all night:
“My God and my All. My God and my All. My God and my All.”