What a Woman Pastor Showed Me

It was something to behold!

Photo by Austin Chan on Unsplash

So, we took the advice of my pastor friend. We visited the Methodist church in town. I never thought I would go to a Methodist church. The Reformed elitism in me didn’t take them seriously. But you do these things when you are desperate. (I know how bad this sounds, I’m telling on myself.) And in our search, we are basically left with the mainline churches. On the way, I shot up one of those arrow prayers, Lord, I am looking for Christ in your church. Help me see him if he’s there.

He was.  

It’s an old church, a small congregation­­—which is mostly old as well, and all white. I appreciate the amount of mature people and am encouraged by some younger families. But the all-white part is disappointing. They were friendly. The older woman in sparkly sneakers was particularly interesting to me. I want some bling in my silver years. The music wasn’t obnoxious but could use a little more umph. There was a mixture of hymns and contemporary music. No one was cool. Hallelujah! They follow the church calendar, and it was Lent season. The liturgy was refreshing. Christ was there. The whole service was saturated in the gospel.

The pastor is a woman. She was out on maternity leave through the rest of the month. We decided to stick around, play it week-by-week. And we wanted to experience it with the pastor there. She returned the end of March.

Here’s what I wrote in my journal:

I don’t even know how to put into words the beauty, power, and simplicity of what we beheld as a family. We went back to that Methodist church, looking forward to a service with the pastor’s return from her maternity leave. It all would sound so absurd to me only 6 months ago. Me, a Calvinist, walking into a Methodist church. A mainline church! Me, looking forward to a woman pastor returning from maternity leave. God, you know all it took to put me here. The humiliation. The desperation. The schlepping our family from church to church looking for you. And here we are in this white, aging congregation. Who just a few years ago brought in this young woman pastor, educated at Princeton Seminary, still growing her new family.

We walk in inhaling the smell of bacon and maple syrup as the congregation is hosting a breakfast immediately following the service to welcome Katie and her family back. We aren’t going. It’s too much for our first social event there. Although a few of the older women have invited us, I don’t want to Aimee-pounce on this pastor at a breakfast where her congregants who missed her would like to be normal people. I’m still figuring out how to be normal people.

I catch a glimpse of her talking to someone in the front row, with her three-month-old infant strapped to her chest. I wonder when she is going to unwrap him so that she can “go to work.” Her skin is soft-looking, naturally flowing light brown hair, no make-up that is noticeable, regular clothes, her collar is covered up by the baby harness. Little Wilbur is sleeping away on her chest. I hear her say something to her conversation partner about how this is his usual nap-time and hopefully he will continue to sleep.

I notice that her husband is in the other pew in the front row, as their toddler is playing on the floor. He proved to be the child who likes to distract, be heard. Howard. He’s wearing Vans sneakers. Oh man, that made me like them a little more.

Then the service starts. Katie calls us to worship, baby still strapped to her chest. Her voice is not put on. There’s a smile on her face, and you can tell she is a little nervous. Maybe even a little rusty after three months, in which time she pushed a baby out of her body and has been feeding him with it on demand. I’ve always liked the name Katie. During the prayer request time before the congregational prayer, Katie tells us how good it is to be back and how much she missed everyone. One of the praises from an older woman in the back was about Katie’s return, but also how smoothly everything ran in her absence. This is a mature congregation, and they don’t depend on a one-man show. I takes a mature leader to leave for three months knowing this, preparing them for this.

She moves onto the children’s talk after the singing. I’m thinking surely the baby will be separated from his mother afterwards. She sits with the children, talking with them about how Jesus wept. Wilber started to weep. Katie casually half-stands up and does the mommy-bounce that soothes little Wilber, not missing a beat in talking with the children and answering their questions. She then dismisses the little ones who want to go to the children’s time outside of the sanctuary and transitions behind the pulpit with baby Wilbur still on her chest.

I watched a woman deliver a wonderful sermon with a baby attached to her.

I was attuned to the sermon on John 11, how Jesus is the resurrection and what that means for us in our own dark moments today. While Wilbur slept on her chest. It was something to behold. Just writing about it makes me think of the women in the fields working all day with a baby attached to them. But here is choice. Here is freedom. And this is what it looks like. I think about the men who have everything taken care for them as they do “the most important service” of delivering the word of God to his people. And Katie showing something very different. Her voice was soft but engaging. Her speech was simple, but intelligent. She not only knew what she was talking about but was talking to actual people.

We sang a couple more songs after, and then it was time for the benediction. The children got out early and were finding their parents as Katie walked up to give the blessing. That’s when Howard, the outspoken toddler, bypassed daddy and ran straight to pastor-mom as she raised her arms, yelling, “No, mommy; no, mommy; no mommy!” over and over through the entire benediction. How hilarious! Don’t bless these people, mommy! She made a joke about how he needs to get acclimated again to the Sunday service. Me too, little buddy. Me too.