I had a short tenure in my first call. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the church. It was full of people who believed like I did, a relative rarity in the southeastern US. I heard exceptional preaching every week from the senior pastor, and I got my own opportunities in the pulpit. And, my office was located on a college campus, which meant I was a short walk away from all the books in the university library. Drool.

But my now-spouse lived a 10-hour drive away. As a United Methodist provisional pastor, he could not leave Alabama without setting back his ordination process. When we got serious about our future together, I was the already-ordained and thus more mobile pastor. I was ok with moving. For one thing, I was awfully naive about my professional prospects in what would be my new home. For another, the church I was departing, as wonderful as it was, had some challenges. I had followed a long-time, much-loved associate pastor who, a couple of years after her departure, was still present in many ways. She had also led the church through a significant change for which there was little lead-up process, leaving church members’ trust in one another, in the university, and in the pastoral staff iffy. While her actions were not in any way intended to cause conflict, they resulted in a number of difficult circumstances. When the senior pastor took his long-delayed sabbatical a few months into my tenure, I ministered solo through a messy situation for three months. By the time he returned, I was wrung out.

The chair of deacons (in this context, he was the key lay leader) was the first layperson I told about my imminent move. He said, “You’ve been a great unintentional interim for us.” That was a gut punch. I hadn’t taken this call to be a short-timer, and this statement dredged up some serious shame. With time, though, I saw his comment differently. I had provided much-needed consistency and clarity during an anxious time. This was a gift I was uniquely suited to give as someone who had barely put both feet in before taking one, then the other, out. This experience set me on a ministry trajectory toward intentional interim ministry and coaching, both of which fit me and my circumstances as an itinerant clergy spouse well. Today, I treasure that deacon chair’s observation and the work it began in me.

Many ministers have found - or will find - themselves in that unintentional interim role. You came into your call with great hope for a long, fruitful tenure. When you arrived, though, you found a church that either had not done the hard work of self-reflection during the pastoral transition, or that had so many issues to address that they couldn’t all be covered in one stretch, or that developed deep fissures over, say, pandemic response. You have realized that your remaining time at your church will be shorter and more intense than planned. You probably have Feelings about that. Whatever they are, they are valid.

Know, though, that just because you are an unintentional interim, that doesn’t mean your leadership isn’t incredibly valuable. You are steadying the ship during a very fraught time. You are allowing problems to surface so they can be named and dealt with. You are loving your people. You are paving the way for your successor to succeed. All of this is the Lord’s work, and you will leave your congregation better than you found it.

So I see you, unintentional interims. You are my people. I am cheering you on, and I’m praying for you.

Photo by Juliana Romão on Unsplash.

Impostors work alone, even if they always seem to be surrounded by people. That’s because they live in fear of being found out. One of the best ways to assure yourself that you’re not a fraud, then, is by seeking real connection with others.

We need some relationships in which we can take off our filter:

Who are the people with whom you can be your truest self?

Whom do you invite to help you and hold you accountable?

Connection can also take the form of amplifying others’ voices. In a vocation like ministry where the title “pastor” still conjures up a very specific, very male mental image for most people, clergywomen need one another:

How might we reach out to support other women?

Who needs our encouragement? How might we give it?

Who needs recognition? About what specifically?

Who might we amplify? How might we do that?

The more we look for mutual support, the more we’ll be able to help each other combat self-doubt.

And the more we lift one another up, the more bonded we will be, with the positive by-product of others better realizing the gifts and experiences have to offer. Everyone wins - us, our colleagues, and those under our leadership. By contrast, impostors are in it only for what they gain for themselves. It rarely matters to them who else benefits - or who might even be sacrificed so that they can continue to look good.

I invite you to make lists or draw concentric circles of your relationships, from your closest ones to your acquaintances. Offer a prayer of gratitude for these people. Consider what it might take to deepen a couple of these connections. Take stock of the abilities of the people on your list/diagram and mull which ones you’d like to encourage further or amplify. Ask for God’s guidance in doing so.

I hope that by now you know deep in your being you are no impostor and that when those thoughts start to tug at the edges of your consciousness, you have some tools to combat them. The church and the world need you, the actual you, and all the wisdom and quirks and sass you bring.

If you liked this post, check out week 1, week 2, week 3, week 4, week 5, and week 6 of this series.

Photo by Carl Nenzen Loven on Unsplash.

Thanks to FX’s tv show The Americans, I have become completely fascinated by spies. How do agents perpetually inhabit such a morally ambiguous space? And how do they stay in their created personas, particularly when they juggle more than one alternate identity?

Spies are, by definition, impostors. They pretend to be someone different, or to like a target, or to operate under an ideology other than their own, so that they can obtain information they likely wouldn’t have access to otherwise. They sometimes - maybe often - have to remain consistent in their inauthenticity over a period of time to squeeze the most out of their marks.

Impostors, then, have to remember the stories they’ve constructed for themselves if they don’t want to be found out. To combat our own sense of being impostors, how might we remember the realities of our work and the truth of our impacts?

What are our purpose statements in ministry?

What is an image that reminds us of our authentic approach to ministry?

How might we build in regular reflections on what we’ve done?

Who are the people who see and value us, and how might we turn up their volume?

We have not imagined the work that we do and the effects we have on others. We do not have to keep concocted backstories in mind in order to speak and act in character. If we stay attuned to the call of God on our lives, we will be the real deal.

What are touchstones you can build in so that you stay on the trajectory onto which the Spirit has nudged you? Maybe the touchstone is a practice. Maybe it is a photo or a doodle on a napkin. Maybe it is a note someone has written to you. Maybe it’s a smooth stone that you keep in your pocket or a piece of jewelry you wear. Whatever it is, keep it handy to remind you as needed that you are showing up and moving about in authentic ways.

If you liked this post, check out week 1, week 2, week 3, week 4, and week 5 of this series.

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash.

Impostor syndrome is all about imprisonment by expectations, whether they are our own or someone else’s, whether they are spoken aloud or unstated. We’re afraid that we’re not going to stack up to what we “should” be. (“Should” is a more toxic word than any four-letter curse.) Then we wish away who we are in an ill-fated attempt to put on a public persona that doesn’t fit, like when I wore a navy pantsuit to an interview for a job in college. I didn’t initially get the job, and part of the reason was that stupid suit with the ginormous shoulder pads. My interviewer, who offered me the position after the first choice candidate turned it down, later let me know that the suit made my 4’10” self look like a little girl playing dress up. It hid my superpower, which was an unassuming look that belied my toughness in conflicted situations.

Do you know who else didn’t live up to expectations? [Insert the standard, but correct, Sunday School answer here.] Yup. Jesus was not what the people anticipated a Messiah to look or act like. He was not mighty in a military sense. He did not use force to overthrow unjust institutions once and for all. He did not sort people easily into those who do and don’t follow the rules, into the clean and unclean. He didn’t bluster. He didn’t usher in God’s full reign shortly.

Sure, the distance between expectation and reality was what got Jesus in trouble. (It can be dangerous for us too, because we’ll at times be pushing against long-held yearnings or deep-seated biases.) It was also what made him a savior and the harbinger of God’s realm, characterized by grace and peace. The Incarnation was intended to be a reflection of God and God’s dream, not the people’s expectations.

Not trying to be something we’re not and instead moving about our work and lives authentically is an act of following Christ, then. It is courage embodied, as it makes others face their assumptions and biases, which many will fight hard to maintain. It encourages others to be faithful to their unique expressions of God’s image within.

If you could look squarely in Jesus’ face, then, what would he say to you? What would he lift up and affirm in you? How would he gently challenge you? Imagine yourself in conversation with this God-in-flesh who knows how hard it is to shake off the shackles of unhelpful, status-quo-protecting expectations. Then turn, in your mind or in reality, toward someone you’d like to encourage to be more fully themselves. What would you say to that person? Allow those words to volley back as wisdom and compassion for yourself.

If you like this post, check out week 1 and week 2 of this series.

Photo by Will Myers on Unsplash.

The tightening of the gut. A higher-pitched laugh. Strain in the lower back. Restless sleep. An inauthentic display of extroversion. Extreme overfunctioning. Increased sweat production.

These are my internal and external impostor syndrome tells. (That last one is particularly lovely.) What are yours?

The symptoms that accompany impostor syndrome seem harmless enough. But are they? The physical symptoms indicate stresses on the body that can wreak havoc if they are persistent enough. The emotional, spiritual, and vocational effects might be even more detrimental, though. Impostor syndrome makes us undervalue our gifts and ministries. (What do I know anyway?) It urges us to lead in ways that are not authentic to us (How can I seem more authoritative?), and as a result we don’t leverage our God-given strengths as faithfully as we could. It causes us to doubt our decisions and avoid calculated risks instead of using them as ongoing discernment. (What if I mess up and people realize I don’t deserve their trust in my leadership?) And the comparison that impostor syndrome is often rooted in can lead to such discouragement (Why is everyone doing so much more or better than me?) that we consider leaving the ministry altogether.

Well, here’s the thing about being wonderfully made. We’re supposed to learn from others but not copy them. Our backgrounds, challenges, epiphanies, relationships, and more have been woven together in such a way that we speak and act in ways that aren’t exactly like anyone else, and God uses that for good.

Right now, you being you is changing the face of pastoral ministry, is altering the perception of what a clergyperson looks like. Ministers don’t have to inhabit outsized pulpits at big steeple churches to be effective, thanks be to God! We don’t have to have 20 years of experience under their belts. We don’t have to be male, or white, or straight. We simply have to listen for the nudging and wait on the equipping of the Holy Spirit to be pastors who work for the full arrival of God’s reign. If we do that, we’ll be surprised and delighted by what can be done with what we’ve been given.

This week, spend some time in a breath prayer. Breathe in God’s care for you. Breathe out your care for others, expressed in your own way. Do this for at least a minute.

If you like this post, check out week 1 of this series.

Photo by Noah Näf on Unsplash.

I come face-to-face with self-doubt on a weekly basis. More often, it’s daily. (Ok, ok, multiple times per day.) Why should churches or other ministers think I can help them? Who am I to think I can speak to [insert complex issue here]? What do people think when they look at my rate sheet?

Impostor syndrome is feeling like a fraud, moments away from being exposed, despite having a verifiable track record. When you are your own employer, it’s easy for impostor syndrome to make itself at home in your psyche. After all, your ability to work in your field depends on constantly putting yourself out there. And in my case as a coach, I am not so much offering a thing to purchase as I am myself: my presence, experience, and gifts. That feels very tender and risky if I think too much about it.

Certainly impostor syndrome is not limited to those who run their own businesses. I felt it in congregational ministry as well. Who am I to speak on God’s behalf? What if I hear wrong? Does anything I say or do matter, or am I yelling into the void? I know from talking with coachees that many pastors wrestle with these questions and many more, despite feeling confident that they have been called to ministry and are continually being equipped by God.*

Humility is a good thing. It helps us stay in our own lanes, and it reminds us that we need God and those around us. But when humility mutates into something corrosive, it is no longer a gift of the Spirit. It becomes an obstacle to right relationship with God and God’s beloved.

That’s why I’ll be spending Lent - the season when we focus most intently on removing all that comes between us and God - on impostor syndrome. How does it manifest, and what kind of spiritual reflection can we engage in to step back from self-doubt into a humility rooted in being made in God’s image?

I invite you to join me.

*Some of these struggles are prompted by internalized structural inequities and the prejudices of others. Even so, we must learn how to maneuver through them as we seek to dismantle them.

Photo by Kyle Head on Unsplash.

You did it!

You made it through 2020, a year like no other we’ve experienced. Maybe you were like me, staying up until midnight on New Year’s Eve for the first time in years, wanting to make sure the year got on out of here and shedding tears of relief when it did. Maybe you were understandably too tired to care or too convinced that 2021 would just be a second verse, same as the first, since nothing substantial changed overnight on December 31.

However you skidded into 2021, it is upon us. And it’s typical at the outset of a new year to set goals: what are the areas of your life that are within your control and in which you’d like to see progress or change? What are the differences you’d like to see, and what are the steps toward them?

I am a big fan of goals. They are arrows with ropes attached that you aim at targets, and once you’ve lodged your arrow, you can pull yourself forward using the rope. Goals keep us focused and motivated. Goals keep us aligned with our purpose.

There are no minimums or maximums on goal size, though. Your objective might be to get out of bed every morning, or it might be to become president of the United States. Both aspirations have merit. And it’s worth noting that when life is chewing you up, it can feel as impossible to get out of bed as to become Commander in Chief.

So if you are hanging on by your fingertips, more exhausted than you’ve ever been, unsure what the future of your ministry (or ministry period) looks like, bracing for the deaths of beloved people because of the post-holiday Covid surge, dealing with the grumbles of those who are nonetheless clamoring at the church doors for in-person worship, worried about what the election that somehow hasn’t ended yet (in the minds of some) might still bring, jonesing for human connection or waiting on the hot second your kids will return to daycare or school, and staring down the barrel of Lent in just a few weeks, simply surviving mentally and emotionally as well as physically is a real feat and a worthy goal. You don’t have to map out the next three months, much less the next three years. You don’t have to beat yourself up - please don’t! - for not meeting your normal-time standards. You don’t have to possess all the answers.

Really, January 1 is just a day. But the turning of the calendar offers us a reminder that things can be different. We can make positive changes, and one of those might be to let ourselves off the hook a little after ten months of constantly living in crisis leadership mode, which our bodies and spirits were not designed to do. Yes, hold the line where safety is concerned. Fulfill your essential duties (and be honest about which ones really are essential, because they’re fewer than you think). But in other areas, model for your also-exhausted laypeople what it means to take care of the beloved image of God inside the vessel God created for it.

Photo by Moritz Knöringer on Unsplash.

I recently posted the thoughts below on my Facebook page. They seemed to strike a chord, so I’m offering them here as well. Lay leaders, judicatory and denominational leaders, and ministers working outside the congregational context, I urge you to share these reflections on behalf of those local church pastors who cannot.

Churchgoers, I know you are tired of this pandemic. I know you want to hug your friends and see their full, unmasked faces on Sunday mornings. I know you are frustrated when your fellow church members start attending services and programs in congregations that are taking fewer precautions. I know you are heartbroken that Advent and Christmas observances won't look the same this year.

Your pastors are feeling all these same things. AND, their personal faith and their call to pastoral leadership are the reasons they are holding the line with - and doing all the additional labor that comes with maintaining - safeguards. You can't see it, but your ministers are working harder than ever. Worship, pastoral care, spiritual formation, and coordination with lay leaders all require many more steps and much more intentionality than in normal times, and pastors are taking these steps because they love you and take their jobs seriously. They have been getting extra creative (and exerting a lot of effort) to help you celebrate the coming season in new, meaningful ways.

Many ministers are feeling like people hired to do the bidding of their church members rather than leaders freed up to fulfill the call of God lately, though. When they get pressure to do things they don't feel are safe, or when they hear that the very people they're trying to protect are complaining that the pastor isn't doing enough, here's what happens. Their anxiety ratchets up. They overfunction or don't know what to do first. They can't sleep. Their health suffers. They question whether serving a congregation is worth all the angst. Any ticket out begins to look really good, and I'm not just talking about another job.

Please, please, please, pray for your ministers. Ask what help they need. Notice to them and to others what they are doing to help your congregation stay connected and encouraged. Join them in innovating. Above all, though, refrain from offering any feedback right now that is not constructive, because I guarantee it will be much more destructive than you intend, to the detriment of your pastor, your church, and the Church.

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash.

It is no secret that I dislike the metrics most commonly used - particularly by judicatories and denominations - to measure a church’s health. Giving and attendance are not only lagging indicators, which show us what has happened rather than give us a sense of what is possible, they are only loosely connected to spiritual growth and showing Christ’s love in the world. Those two things, after all, are what we are to be about as Jesus followers.

And in this time of Covid, these numbers tell us even less. You may have 40 views of your worship service on YouTube, but how many people were watching per device? How engaged were they as they watched? Did they hop on for five minutes or the whole service? What helped them feel most connected to others and to God? Depending on how we interpret online participation in worship, Bible study, meetings, and other gatherings, we can have an inflated or (more likely) a discouraging sense of our church’s and our pastoral leadership’s impact. Feeling like we’re spending all this extra prep time to reach only a few people can have a devastating effect on our sense of efficacy, our proximity to burnout, and even our call to ministry.

Lately I have been working with several coachees on establishing objectives and metrics that do not depend on these minimally-informative numbers. On the objectives side, what could the benefits of your worship service or event be no matter how many people attend? It could be that participants are spiritually nurtured or challenged or that they will have the opportunity to connect with others. It could be that you will have the chance to test out a new idea or approach and get feedback on it, allowing you to improve it for the next time. Metrics might include the takeaways from your offering, which you could ask for in live voices, chat, or comments, or the number of smiles or laughs you notice, or the amount of interaction among participants as opposed to responses just to you.

Notice that all of these examples are within some level of your control as the leader, unlike monetary giving and attendance. They also call for some creativity. Knowing your work matters and having the flexibility to adapt your framing are both essential for moving through this pandemic with your calling intact, which I hope for you, because the church needs your presence and voice!

Photo by pine watt on Unsplash.

It’s Thanksgiving week in the United States! Yours might look a lot different than in years past, though. You might be observing Zoomsgiving, or you might be gathering with a much smaller group than usual because of the pandemic.

It’s hard not being able to sit around the table with our loved ones. We don’t need to gloss over that heartache. I think that in 2020 in particular, we need to lament our losses before we give genuine thanks for our blessings. Lament is different from despair, in which we stay mired in our grief. Lament is clear-eyed acknowledgement of difficulty, followed by turning our hurts over to God in the confidence that God loves and wants good for us.

A few weeks ago I led a workshop on self-care for ministers. I included lament as a part of tending to ourselves so that we can be more fully present to God and to others (emotionally, if not physically). Below is a part of a psalm, interspersed with invitations to respond.

Psalm 42:2-6 (from The Psalter, (c) 1995, Liturgy Training Publications)

As a deer craves running water,

I thirst for you, my God;

I thirst for God,

the living God.

When will I see your face?

[Name times when God has felt distant lately.]

Tears are my steady diet.

Day and night I hear,

“Where is your God?”

[Name what you have shed tears about lately.]

I cry my heart out,

I remember better days:

When I entered the house of God,

I was caught in the joyful sound

of pilgrims giving thanks.

[Name what you miss about pre-pandemic times.]

Why are you sad, my heart?

Why do you grieve?

Wait for the Lord.

[Pray for the trust and patience needed to wait on God.]

When you feel ready, pray Psalm 42:6b: “I will yet praise God my Savior.”

It is amazing to me that a psalm written so long ago speaks powerfully to our current situation. To me that means that we fall in a long lineage of others who have endured difficulty and looked for God in it. It also gives me hope that God will bring us out on the other side.

May you have a deeply meaningful Thanksgiving, whatever it looks like for you. I am sincerely grateful for who you are and what you offer to the world, especially now.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash.

As a kid learning to love basketball as Michael Jordan was emerging as an NBA superstar, I was curious about the Netflix docuseries covering his final season with the Chicago Bulls. I found several aspects of the series fascinating: Jordan’s exaggerated sense of competition, his rise as a cultural icon, his role in making individual endorsement deals as a team sport star commonplace. (By the way, did you know Nike was a small company specializing in track shoes until Jordan signed a deal with it straight out of UNC? I didn’t.)

But it was a quote from a journalist in the last episode that really grabbed me:

“Most people struggle to be present. People go and sit in ashrams in India for twenty years, trying to be present. Do yoga, meditate, trying to get here, now. Most people live in fear because we project the past into the future. Michael is a mystic. He was never anywhere else. His gift was not that he could jump high, run fast, shoot a basketball. His gift was that he was completely present, and that was the separator.”

— Mark Vancil, quoted in the Netflix series "The Last Dance," episode X.

Michael Jordan’s gift wasn’t his athleticism, it was his ability to be present.

That’s quite a statement. It’s also a ray of hope to me. I’ll never have great physical gifts. I’m a decent preacher, but no one will ever call me the GOAT. Sometimes I’m slow to respond in conversation. But being present? That’s something that I - that you - can conceivably do. That’s the real gift, and it’s available to us.

Sure enough, being present is especially tough right now when the demands are greater and our roles overlap in messy ways. That’s also why it’s even more important. If we can be where we are, if we can be with the people around us, if we can stay in the present without worrying about how our leadership will be received or obsessing about what our choices are doing to our loved ones, not only will this time be more bearable, it will also make us better pastors, parents, friends, and citizens.

What do you need in order to be deeply present? Keep it simple: a deep breath, a focusing verse of scripture or image, a ritual that helps you transition from one mode or task to the next.

I wonder what incredible, relational things we might be capable of if we leaned into this superpower.

Photo by Eilis Garvey on Unsplash.

October is Pastor Appreciation Month. It’s probably a holiday made up to sell more greeting cards, but I’m going with it. You really you deserve gratitude year-round, though. That’s every year, and even more so in the flaming heap that is 2020. Here is what I’ve seen from you in the midst of pandemic, a civil rights movement, a grueling election cycle, and more:

Responsiveness. Not safe to gather at church? You took church virtual. Protests flare up over the murders of our siblings of color? You put on a mask and marched or donated to grassroots organizations that promote equity or led anti-racism studies in your congregations. People’s basic rights are at stake? You spoke hard truths, even when some called you “too political.” Social safety nets are crumbling? You made space in your churches for virtual learners or picked up food distribution to those in need.

Resilience. Many of you are working harder and longer than you ever have - and you were by no means slackers before - even though this work is largely invisible unless it doesn’t get done. You’ve realized much as a result about your gifts, your call, and your limits.

Innovation. You created new systems for worship, spiritual formation, pastoral care, and connection among church members. You’ve gleaned what is possible and what will be essential in a world where Covid-19 is more controlled.

Flexibility. Let’s face it. There has been, of necessity, a lot of trial and error over the past several months. Great! You’ve tried things, learned, and adapted or let go of what wasn’t working. That’s a healthy model for our congregations, many of which are hesitant to end any ministry, no matter how past its prime.

Love for your people. You’ve called. You’ve written. You’ve made porch visits. You’ve dropped off goodies. You have grieved not being able to see your congregation in person and to give hugs, handshakes, and fist bumps. You have been devastated when you couldn’t be with members as they were dying.

I am in awe of you.

And I want things for you:

Permission not to do all the things. Maybe this permission needs to come from your lay leaders or head of staff. Maybe it needs to come from within. Even though you are doing amazing ministry, you are not what you do. You are a beloved child of God, called and equipped for ministry and deserving of time and energy to care for the image of God within.

A sustainable rhythm. The pace you’ve been working at was borne of crisis. We have since realized that the emergencies of the past several months were not short-term. Covid will be with us for a while. The journey to justice is long. The US presidential election is likely to stir the pot more than cool it off. If you had known in March what was coming, how would you have approached it? How might you work with your leaders to shift into that gear now?

Recognition from your congregation. Some churches realize they are so fortunate to have their pastors. Others are beating their clergy to a bloody pulp out of their misplaced anxiety. I pray literally every night that your congregation takes as much care of you as you do of them.

Glimmers of normal. Maybe it’s a Bible study that meets outside, socially-distanced. Maybe it’s having a few people in the sanctuary when you preach. Maybe it’s getting a Covid test so that you can visit family or friends with a clear conscience. Whatever glimpse you need of the way things used to be in ministry and in life, I hope you find it.

People beyond your church to love and be loved by. These people might be sheltering at home with you. They might live far away, reachable now only by card, phone, or video call. Whatever the case, remember that there is life and care beyond the bounds of your work and that there are spaces where you can simply be a human, not a SuperPastor.

God, thank you for these pastors. Give them courage, creativity, support, and rest. We need them now more than ever. Amen.

[If this post resonated, you might want to check out Dear Pastors.]

It was not always a given that I’d become a mom. After eight years of marriage, my spouse and I still shrugged at each other every time one of us brought up the topic of parenthood. That is, until God dropped a vision-bomb of me setting down a toddler, who then ran so gleefully to a man - my husband - that the parent-child connection was obvious.

It was almost two years until that child I’d seen in my mind was born. As an interim minister, I was between calls, but I knew I’d want to work again soon. The kind of position I was looking for was different than pre-baby, though. I wanted to go part-time while Levi was so young, and I needed a congregational context that would welcome his presence rather than resent it. (In fact, I turned down one job offer when it seemed the senior pastor didn’t really want my kid around.) I hit the jackpot, accepting the call to be minister to youth at a church I had previously served as interim associate minister. The search team chair bent over backwards to make the situation work for Levi and me. She found us a spot at the church’s early childhood ministry for the days that I worked. She arranged for childcare on Sunday evenings when I would be leading youth group. The senior minister and my immediate supervisor, the associate minister who followed my interim, were also generous with their support.

I loved that I could utilize my gifts as minister while my baby was across the hall from my office, being cared for by people who adored him. I loved that his teachers could ask me questions or grab me about concerns at any time. I loved that when he refused to take a nap in room full of active babies (the FOMO has always been strong with this one), I could lay him down in my office, turn off the lights, and work by computer monitor light while he slept. Sunday mornings, though, were my favorite. Since I served a Disciples of Christ congregation, there was communion every week. As youth minister I rarely presided at the table, so I slipped out the back of the sanctuary, picked Levi up from the nursery, and joined the end of the communion line. At first I carried him facing out in a wrap, his smile and others’ big as we walked down the aisle. As he began to walk, he teeter-tottered forward, and people on the end of the pews clutched their chests in joy. In front of the communion table, he regularly heard that the bread and juice meant that Jesus loved him.

It was a gift for both of us to spend two years in an environment that supported my ministry and nurtured my budding parental identity and my son’s faith development. It reinforced for me that I was called both to ministry and motherhood, and that in the right context, I could do both imperfectly but well. I believe - hope - that our presence also reassured the congregation of the same to the benefit of other clergywomen who might serve there.

Above all, though, I gained insight into who God is as holy parent. God does not compartmentalize when it comes to Jesus - God is Creator/Sustainer/Redeemer of all humankind as well as Jesus’ own parent at all times, even when the overlap gets messy. God wishes to affirm all the parts of us as well. That is part of what it means to be made whole.

As I transitioned from ministry in the congregation to the ministry of clergy coaching, making space for my two calls has been the priority. As Levi got older and started school, I started to divide up my life into work and family tracks. During the pandemic, those lines have slowly been erased. I’ll admit - it was rough at first. It’s still hard sometimes. But once we found our groove, I remembered how wonderful it was to be able to snuggle my baby (now 7 years old) anytime during the day while still living fully into my pastoral call. Thanks be to God for the chance to pastor and parent.

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This post is part of the book launch blog tour for Embodied: Clergy Women and the Solidarity of a Mothering God. Embodied includes reflection questions at the end of each chapter, to instigate conversations that lead to support and new perspectives. The book is available this September from Bookshop.org, Amazon, or Cokesbury.  Check out all the stops on the blog tour, and buy the book!

There are many ways I could describe the past six months, but I’m going with “revealing.” The pandemic has clarified systemic issues related to a broken healthcare system, racial inequities, lack of leadership at almost every level (governmental and denominational), and inefficient infrastructure for responding to crises. Specifically, though, I am thinking about how all the shifts prompted by Covid-19 have uncovered how unsustainable ministry is for so many pastors in their current contexts.

Prior to the pandemic, a significant number of my clergy coachees and colleagues were working under unrealistic expectations, whether those came from their congregations or from their own internal “shoulds.” And then, mid-Lent, they had to change the ways they did nearly everything - and fast. They became not just preachers but tech experts with all that entails: recording, editing, sound mixing, lighting, inviting people to and teaching them how to participate in and managing online meetings, exploring the most accessible social media platforms, and monitoring cyber security. They spent many hours trying to get all of this right because worship and Bible study and fellowship are so critical, not knowing that they’d have to continue all that they started beyond a few weeks, often without much help from others. (Because, again, the shutdown was supposed to be temporary, so why ask for assistance from others dealing with their own altered realties?)

Now not only do many ministers’ jobs look very different than what they were before mid-March, but they may no longer align with these leaders’ senses of giftedness and call. They are doing work they did not sign up for, or at least work they didn’t particularly love has increased while the aspects that energized them have all but evaporated. And there is no end in sight to these changes, both because Covid-19 continues to spread and because pastors know that they’ll have to keep up at least some of their new tasks once churches re-gather to accommodate constituents who’ve found virtual connection works better for them.

In addition, ministers lost their best means of not just keeping tabs on how their church members were doing but also getting any kind of encouraging feedback, namely seeing faces in the pews during worship and interacting informally with folks on Sunday mornings. This loss made communication, pastoral care, and decision-making infinitely harder. Everything started to take more time, more intentionality, more energy. This, while many clergy have also been caring for and schooling children whose schools and daycares closed and whose other caregivers have had to isolate to protect their own health.

In return for all the extra effort, many pastors have received mostly anxiety and negativity in return. Part of this is because everyone is struggling, and church is an easy place for people to project discontent. (What’s your pastor going to do if you get mad? She can’t fire you, refuse to work with you, or give you a bad grade.) Part of this is the polarization in our culture, which has morphed public health measures like closing buildings and wearing masks into political landmines during a presidential election cycle. And part is simply that church members simply don’t know all that their leaders are doing since everyone is isolated in their homes.

The effects of all these difficulties are taking their toll. They have deepened pre-existing fault lines and created new ones such that clergy who already had some sense of discontent now have one foot out the door, and some who were very happy are seriously questioning whether their current context is still a good fit. The result, I predict, is going to be a tidal wave of pastoral departures once churches re-gather, and maybe sooner depending on how long the pandemic rages on. Clergy who have been hurt by accusing questions like, “What are you doing all day?” or “Why can’t we meet?” or “Why didn’t you do X (or call Y)?” “Are you really going to make me wear a mask?” are going to have trouble forgetting and will look for fresh starts elsewhere. Some lead clergy who have caught a lot of heat might want to step into positions, such as associate roles, where they aren’t the point person. Others are just going to feel chewed up and spat out and choose to leave the ministry altogether.

Church folks, this time is hard for everyone. It’s hard for you, certainly. And it’s hard for your pastor. If you want to keep your pastor after Covid-19 becomes more manageable, here are some suggestions to help ease your minister’s stress during the pandemic:

• Check on your pastor. Many clergy don’t have anyone outside of their family to ask how they are and to listen to the answer.

• If you have the bandwidth, ask how you can help. As mentioned above, ministers took an unsustainable amount of work on themselves early in the pandemic because it was easier in the short term, they didn’t want to bother others who were struggling, and they didn’t know they’d be doing all the extra tasks six months later.

• Speak well about your pastor to others. If other church members talk disparagingly about what they think the minister is or isn’t doing, reply with your belief that she is working hard and, like all of us, doing the best she can.

• If someone mentions a specific pastoral care need to you, urge that person to contact the pastor. She wants to know so that she can respond!

• Engage bigger questions with fellow church members. What are we learning about our church or our community during this time? What do we need to keep or stop doing as a result? If you can think beyond the moment and help others do so, your pastor will be so grateful.

• Send your minister an encouraging card, text, or email. Name specific things you see her doing that you appreciate. This noticing goes a long way in helping a pastor feel valued.

It’s normal for clergy to depart in the wake of an acute event like a disaster. It isn’t inevitable, though. People in the (virtual) pews can attempt to stem the tidal wave simply by being supportive and encouraging others to do so. Even if your pastor eventually leaves, she will treasure the affirmation, and your church will have established patterns for loving your next leader well.

Photo by Max McKinnon on Unsplash.

On Sunday I celebrated an important anniversary. Last August 16 I was run over by an SUV while crossing a busy downtown street. It was not an experience I’d wish on anyone. When I see a character get hit by a car on tv, I still have a reaction that is all at once physical, psychological, and emotional. I scream, hold up my hands, and brace for impact. I expect that response will never fully go away.

I am incredibly grateful to have survived such a horrific event. I occasionally wondered in the early stages of the pandemic, though, “I stuck around for this?” It was always a fleeting thought, but it was also an honest one, acknowledging how much has changed since March and how a lot of that change sucks.

Not everything is terrible, though. My son and I were talking recently about what is different for him after these past five months at home. In that time he has learned to ride a scooter, play Minecraft, use Google Docs to write his short stories, and make stop motion videos. He has discovered new favorite book series. He has improved his drawing skills in ways he’s really proud of. There’s more, but you get the idea. This space has allowed him to experiment and explore, largely at his own initiative.

I started thinking along the same lines for myself. I realized that I’ve done some new things I’m happy with too - webinars, writing, small group coaching sessions around focused topics, cohorts - but I didn’t want to focus on the productivity pieces. It didn’t seem particularly helpful to tie my satisfaction to these kinds of measurable outcomes, because what if I’m less productive when school starts? How will I feel about myself then? Instead, I honed in on how I as a person have grown. (I share all of what follows with gratitude for my spouse, who is my sounding board, co-parent, and constant support. I try to be the same for him.)

I am more adaptable. I like to have and work a plan, and I usually like to work big chunks of that plan in silence. [Hello, raging introvert here.] Well, good luck with any of that sheltering at home for an unknown period of time, particularly with an extroverted seven-year-old. I was forced to be more nimble, and after a while it started to come a bit more naturally to me.

I am more resilient. There were points during the first couple of months when I was nearly incapacitated by stress. I was tired all the time but didn’t sleep well. Everything felt out of control. As I re-oriented to my purpose (see below), took a few minutes each day for more right-brained activity (paint by numbers!), and power-walked daily around my neighborhood, though, I found myself more grounded and ready to deal with what came.

I am more deeply-rooted in my call. As I listened to coachees and colleagues during the early weeks of the pandemic, I began to hear patterns and themes: how do I deal with this change or that? How do I tend to my well-being in the midst of it? Helping ministers and churches navigate transitions well is where my heart is. I recognized I had something to offer, whether it was coaching or information or connections to others going through similar circumstances. I needed and leaned into that re-affirmation of niche.

I am a better parent. Before March I was worried about how to get through the summer when our small town has few childcare options. [Insert maniacal laughter here.] I thought I had to compartmentalize work and family to do either well. As it turns out, I don’t. (A lot of this, for sure, has to do with my kid finding his own initiative during this time.) I take time to switch mentally between the two, then I can do science experiments and read to my son or help him find Lego pieces and generally be present with him while I do it. Not perfectly, for sure, but much better than before. And I get and give many more snuggles now, which I’ll take all day long.

Things remain hard, but they are definitely not all bad. I’m glad I stuck around for this.

Photo by John Baker on Unsplash.

Sure, I’m biased. But I believe coaching is more valuable now than ever. Pastors are facing so many new situations for which there is no expert advice. We are all feeling our way along, and coaching can help you think through your gifts, needs, resources, and context so that you create a path that fits you and the people in your care. For example:

Is your church continuing to meet online for the foreseeable future, yet you’re exhausted and not sure how to make this means of ministry sustainable? Coaching can help you think through goals for this time, cull the to-do list down to the tasks that make accomplishing those aims possible, and a make plan for tackling the tasks.

Are you undecided about how to approach the traditional start of the program year in this very untraditional season of social distancing? Coaching can help you tap into your creativity and place this program year in a larger spiritual formation trajectory, making it easier to focus on and get excited about what is most important.

Are you looking for a new call during this pandemic, wondering whether churches are searching for pastors and how a candidate can tell her story well in these changed circumstances? Coaching can help you identify the added opportunities and challenges of being in search & call right now, enabling you to capitalize on the former and manage the latter.

Are you scratching your head (or, let’s be real, panicking) about how to balance supervising your child(ren)’s virtual or blended school while staying faithful to your ministerial role? Coaching can help you name how you want to show up for your family and your church, then make an actionable plan for how to operate that way.

Do you want to explore a new self care strategy since many of your usual outlets are unavailable to you? Coaching can draw out the characteristics that make self care effective for you and broaden your thinking about tactics that meet those criteria.

Has your pastoral position been downsized from full- to part-time because the offering has tailed off during the pandemic? Coaching can help you make the transition to being truly part-time - not just full-time with part-time pay - and to discover additional income streams if needed.

Is the polarization over mask-wearing morphing into political debate in your congregation - with a U.S. presidential election looming - and leaving you caught in the middle? Coaching can help you discern how to self-differentiate so that you can tend well to relationships rather than get hooked by arguments.

Not only can coaching assist in these areas and more, but it is fully customizable to your goals and your schedule. If you had professional development funds earmarked for conferences you can no longer attend, there is no better use of that money than to contract with a coach who can help you navigate all that 2020 is throwing at us. I welcome you to schedule a free discovery call here to learn more about how I approach coaching and to ask any questions you might have.

Photo by Edwin Hooper on Unsplash.

Dear pastors,

We have now hit the halfway mark in this year like no other. Maybe you came into 2020 excited for what was to come. Maybe you were limping along in ministry, battered by conflict or worry about church finances. Whatever your outlook was in January, no one has escaped untouched by the global crises we’re experiencing.

In the past three months you have remained faithful to the gospel and your call, learning how to produce or livestream worship, preach to webcams and empty sanctuaries, reach new constituencies via online platforms, offer pastoral care and spiritual formation from a distance, and manage virtual meetings. You have lost sleep over when and how to re-gather physically as church. You have responded to the disparate calls to re-open immediately and and to keep the doors closed until the rate of infection trends downward, the divide between these groups matching up awfully closely with the boundaries of political camps in our already-charged civic life (in an election year, no less). You have absorbed “feedback” from well-meaning church members who don’t fully know how to operate their own devices or think your home worship space is too cluttered or don’t like how your complexion or clothing show up on camera or don’t think you’re working enough, God forbid. You have wondered how to be church to those who don’t have smartphones or computers. Your head has nearly exploded from all the Zoom gatherings you’ve attended.

You have given up visions for a blow-out Easter Sunday service. You’ve been unable to celebrate fully your beloved graduates. Your summer looks nothing like you expected, whether it’s usually full of camps and mission trips and VBS or characterized by a much-needed slower pace. You’ve seen sabbaticals slip through your fingers. You’ve canceled plans, one detail at a time, for that conference or vacation that you were eagerly anticipating. Some of you have even changed calls in this midst of this mess, unable to get and give hugs to those who’ve ministered alongside you and forced to meet and start to get to know a new congregation through a screen.

You’ve done all this while either living alone and missing real-life human connection or while never getting a blessed moment to yourself, surrounded as you are by a roommate, partner, and/or children working and schooling from home. You’ve done all this while rationing toilet paper and cooking more than you ever have in your life. While, of necessity, discovering or inventing new outlets for self-care. While your primary systems of moral and professional support - other clergy - have been as distracted and weighed down as you are.

You initially thought this would all be inconvenient for a few weeks, then you could get back to normal. But then it became clear that the virus was accelerating, and you had to shift from a sprint to a marathon mindset. And you did, tough as it was. You pivoted again when murderous violence was perpetrated and videoed against several BIPOC* in rapid succession. You saw the moment we were in, the chance to make headway on current iterations of centuries of racism, the opportunity to speak into white silence and have more and bigger conversations about structural inequities. If you are a BIPOC, you heard people debate (again) your experiences and raised your much-needed voice. If you are white, you started or continued work on your own complicity in racial injustice. This is good and needed work - and it does not lessen the stresses and necessities related to pastoral leadership in the time of Covid-19.

Do you recognize how well you have led during this time? I am in awe of you.

Still, you are understandably weary. It is ok - holy, even - to rest.

You are wondering if you are enough. Yes. God equips and empowers us each to maneuver our part of Christ’s body.

You might even be questioning your call to vocational ministry. That is between you and God, but always remember that you - that we all - are called to and gifted for ministry in some form.

Thank you for who you are as a person and pastor. Thank you for what you do. God delights in your faithfulness, your innovation, your tenacity, even as God invites you to tag out for self-care and sabbath.

Blessings be upon you.

Your cheerleader, conversation partner, and admirer,

Laura Stephens-Reed

*The acronym BIPOC might be new to you like it is to me. It stands for Black, Indigenous, and People of Color.

Photo by Kate Macate on Unsplash.

Covid-19 has wreaked havoc on almost every area of our individual and corporate lives. Our resilience, resourcefulness, and relationships have been stretched to their limits as we’ve managed ongoing drastic changes in our professional and personal lives over the past 3+ months. As we’ve been doing all the things and caring for all the people, ministers serving congregations with tenuous finances have wondered how much longer their church budget would support the amount of work they’ve been putting in. (Although, let’s be honest, many ministers were and are already underpaid for the fullness of their efforts.) At this point in an ongoing pandemic, some congregations have had to make tough choices, including cutting back the hours and pay of their minister or eliminating a ministry position entirely.

Are you a clergyperson who finds yourself in this situation? Maybe the amount of work to be done has not changed - nor has your care for your parishioners - but the paid scope of your position has. Or you suddenly find yourself searching for a new call in the midst of Covid-19. These are not easy transitions to manage without help.

I’d like to offer encouragement and partnership to you. During each week in July I am making two one-hour coaching sessions available at no charge to clergy whose positions have been cut or eliminated entirely. You can sign up for one of these sessions here. Together we’ll strategize next steps for making your responsibilities fit your salary or starting the search for a new ministry position. Your leadership is too valuable to the church and world for you to be doing work you’re not paid for or spinning your wheels!

Please share this information with colleagues who could benefit.

In the pastoral model that pops to mind for most Christians in the United States, the minister is a generalist. She preaches, visits, attends meetings in the church and community, and might even repair broken toilets and run the bulletins. That means the clergyperson accompanies people through the valley of the shadow of death and to the tops of mountains, with many mundane pit stops in between.

Right now, though, pastors are not just being asked to care and officiate during all the milestones between the beginning and end of life. They are being forced into making decisions that actually impact life and death. As states and local municipalities begin to re-open, ministers are faced with decisions about physical re-gathering for worship and other church activities. They are reading the Covid-19 statistics, comparing the weekly offering to budget needs, hearing about the congregation down the road re-opening, negotiating tricky conversations about the pandemic that often fall along political lines, and feeling pressure from church members who yearn to be in a familiar space for comforting rituals in a disorienting time. Clergy are doing these things as they continue to preach weekly, check on folks (who have even more emotional needs now) by phone or text, drop into a seemingly-infinite number of Zoom meetings, and record, edit, and upload worship services.

Pastors, for better and worse, are used to wearing a lot of hats. But there are only so many hooks on the rack.

Ministers, be gentle with - and take care of - yourselves. Otherwise, you cannot be the grounded leader your people need. It’s ok to knock some of your hats onto the floor to do this.

Church folks, be gentle with - and take care of - your pastor. I know you cannot see everything your minister is doing right now, because she’s doing most of it from home. But to a person, every clergyperson I’ve talked with over the past two months is working incredibly hard to care for and lead you in new ways. Some of these ways take longer. For many, there’s a learning curve. If you want to complain that your pastor has not set a date for physical re-gathering, please understand that decision is made out of a combination of attention to statistics, careful consideration, and - most importantly - a love for each and every member of your congregation. If you want to delight your pastor, however, reflect on what you’ve learned about your discipleship and your church during the pandemic.

Be well, all.

Photo by JOSHUA COLEMAN on Unsplash.

Two months after most of the United States began feeling the sucker punch of Covid-19, states are moving at various speeds to “re-open” the economy. I have a number of feelings about this, many of them related to the dangers faced by vulnerable populations and the likelihood that we’ll all be sheltering at home again soon.

And then, there’s this: the reality that many of the people whose work drives the economy will be unable to return to their positions because childcare is so scarce. (It was virtually non-existent pre-Coronavirus in my rural Alabama county, where there was one daycare, no extended day at the schools, and no summer programming.) Schools are closed for the rest of the 2019-2020 academic year, as are many childcare centers for the foreseeable future. Parents can’t ask neighbors or family to look after kids because of the possibility of spreading the virus or because they’re taking care of their own children.

We all know what this means, right? Disproportionately, the responsibility of caring for kids in the absence of outside help will fall to women. Women generally earn less, so they’re the ones to give up their jobs when there isn’t adequate childcare. Both women and men have internalized misogyny that characterizes childrearing as women’s work. And these two issues are for two-parent households. Single parents face a range of additional barriers to work when reliable childcare is out of reach.

We simply cannot lose women’s work in any sphere, ministry included. We cannot sacrifice their innovation, their perspectives, their gifts, their tenacity, their tendencies toward collaborative leadership - especially now, when the world is topsy-turvy and demands grit and fresh thinking. I don’t have any answers for solving the childcare dilemma, unfortunately, but I would urge that women consider the following:

Accept that the ongoing crisis is hard for everyone - and that its not changing anytime soon. It would be easier to ride out a time-bound frustration, but there’s no expiration date on this pandemic. We need to make shifts, then, where we’re able.

Notice ongoing and new patterns that de-prioritize your vocation. The pandemic is exacerbating pre-existing problems at every level of society and creating new fault lines. Reflect on what is happening in your household and community so that you can make the aforementioned shifts.

Ask your partner (if you have one) clearly for the time and space you need to work. I, for one, have a bad habit of believing that if I sulk enough, my spouse will intuit the nature of my resentment. It never works.

Support other women in naming what they need. When we encourage one another, it becomes easier to say hard things and harder to take the easy (but soul-crushing) way out.

Raise your voice. The lack of available (and affordable while still paying workers fairly) childcare is a long-running problem, and we’re about to see what happens when an untenable system collapses entirely. Raise a ruckus with those who might be able to do something about the short- and longer-term needs.

Moms, I see you. You are trying to care for kids with big feelings and help them with schoolwork and squeeze work in here and there and maintain your own physical and mental health. Don’t be afraid to seek out whatever support is available to you right now.