Resilience in a Cow Pasture

Talk at Eastern Mennonite Seminary, January 19, 2016

I’m the pastor of Germantown Mennonite Church in Philadelphia, the oldest Mennonite congregation in the Western Hemisphere.  It is an historically distinguished congregation in many ways.  It is the place where the first protest against slavery was written in 1683–100 years before the Quakers, and 175 years before the emancipation proclamation.  

We are also distinguished in that we were removed from both the General Conference and the Mennonite Conference, prior to their becoming the Mennonite Church USA in 2002.  We were removed from the Mennonite Conference in 1997 for welcoming queer folks into baptism and membership, and we were removed from the General Conference in 2002 for ordaining a gay man for his work as a chaplain.  

So, while we call ourselves Mennonite, have solidly Anabaptist beliefs and practices, we are now an independent Mennonite congregation.  Which, in our Anabaptist communal theology, feels pretty ridiculous.

When I began preparing for this conversation and read the intentions and hopes of this session, I have to admit that I began to feel a little uncomfortable.  Am I being asked to talk about how I’m ok after the experiences of ongoing exclusion from the denomination?  It’s a little bit like coming back to a lover that has wronged me and saying, “It’s ok; I’m fine.  Don’t worry about that thing that happened in our past.”  

But I want to talk about what what resilience looks like in exile, so I’m going to do that.  I am very aware that there is a lot of unfinished business between Germantown Mennonite and the denomination.  And while it hangs over this conversation, my purpose here is not to foster reconciliation, but to talk about resilience, so that’s what I’m going to do.

I often relate being the Pastor of Germantown Mennonite church as being like Hester Prynne from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic novel, The Scarlet Letter.  Hester was forced to wear a scarlet A on her chest, a constant reminder to everyone that she was an adulteress.  

I’m very aware of my scarlet GMC–that mark that reminds me of the impact of this congregation on my life, but also a mark that reminds people of my status and associations.

For me personally, let me just say–and not to be too dramatic about it–but this congregation has saved me.  I would not be in Church, and I would not be a follower of Jesus,  if it wasn’t for the folks at this church that gave me a safe place to be angry and broken.  I arrived at Germantown when I was 22.  My mother had just died of cancer, and if one more Christian told me that if she had more faith she’d still be alive, or that God needed another angel, I was going to lose my mind.  

This congregation was good at broken, and they were good at lament, so I felt at home there.  It was the first time I’d ever been in a church where I didn’t feel like I had to be perfect or together.  I could come in angry, or sad, or however I was feeling and it was ok.  

This congregation–particularly the gay men of the church–showed me what God’s love looks and feels like.  I grew up in a church that preached God’s wrath and anger exclusively.  I couldn’t not even conceive of love and grace.  These folks at GMC modeled the art of being broken, and walked through the valley of the shadow of death me me.  

And later, they said to me, “Why aren’t you in seminary?”  “You are called–when are you going to say yes to God?”  So, when the spiritual mentors at the church told me I should pursue ministry, I began to ask these questions of God, and was surprised–and terrified–when the words of my faith community and the words of the spirit were all saying yes.  

I spent eleven years in this congregation before going to seminary.  And, after three years of seminary Germantown Mennonite knew me so well, and yet they called me as their pastor anyway.  

That’s how the congregation has impacted me personally.  The congregation’s expansive love of Jesus, and trust in the spirit has show me another way.  

But here’s where the resilience in ministry comes in:  the rest of the world does not look at Germantown Mennonite Church the way I do.  The rest of the world often sees that scarlet letter burning on my chest, and they make judgement about me and this community I love.  

As the pastor of Germantown Mennonite church, I’ve received non-specific death threats.  I’ve gotten hate mail, or “instructive” mail on how I should teach my congregation the correct way to read the Bible.  We were even threatened by Westboro Baptist back in the day.  

Those things don’t bother nearly as much as the subtle signals I get from other Mennonites that let me know that I am a pariah–that my congregation is a pariah.

Like the time I was invited to speak at a youth event, then dis-invited a few weeks later, because “We just aren’t ready for you yet–you understand though.  Right, Amy?”

Or the time that I sat in as an observer on a contentious denominational meeting where the Executive Minister was speaking, and no one talked to me or sat within 10 feet of me.  

Or that time that my congregation ordained me and some friends didn’t attend because they were worried that their bishop might find out.  

Or when folks hear me talk about the power of scripture to transform and are genuinely surprised that I read the bible.  

I’m very aware that depending on the event I attend in the Mennonite world, it may be hard for people to associate with me, to speak with me directly, to engage me in conversation.  Because I represent something.  I represent queerness even though I am not queer.  I represent controversy, even though I don’t feel or look very controversial.  I represent the thing that people fear in this denomination–exile and brokenness.  

It’s an odd place to be.  Because I didn’t come to the congregation as an attender in 1996 because I had a particular position on sexuality.  I came because I was looking for Jesus, and I found him in this queer, marginal Mennonite church in Philadelphia.  

It’s an odd place to be because I think I’m a pretty normal person.  Boring even.  I’m a middle aged white lady married to a middle aged white guy.  We have two kids, we live in a non-descript neighborhood.  I drive a minivan, for goodness sakes.  I don’t look in the mirror and think–pariah.  I usually look in the mirror and wonder what scarf will look nice with my boring outfit.  

I’m a boring, middle aged pastor, shepherding a controversial church.  And yet, I feel called to continue to engage the denomination–this denomination that has exiled me and my congregation.  But I do not engage as a victim, because Jesus didn’t do that, because Germantown Mennonite does not live like that, and neither do I.  

I feel called to engage the denomination because I am Anabaptist and so are you–and as an Anabaptist I understand that discipleship is not a solitary journey.  I also know that while we disagree on this little thing, we agree on so much more.  It is why I show up time after time.

The story that I relate to most from the scripture in this regard is the story of the Geresene Demoniac.  The demoniac was healed by Jesus, which was terrifying to the townsfolk.  This former demoniac, now clothed and in his right mind, said to Jesus, “let me go with you!”  But, Jesus said, “No–go back to your community and tell them what I’ve done for you.”  

I don’t tell you these things to garner sympathy or action.  Not at all.  I’m called to this place, I feel good about the work I do, I feel the spirit at work. I tell you these things because somewhere in my story, I bet you can relate to the feelings of isolation and outsider-ness.  Because even if I wasn’t the pastor of this infamous congregation, I’d still feel like an outsider in some ways.  It’s the strange side effect of this role to which we are called.  As pastors, we automatically have a strange apart-ness in our congregations.

The question posed today is how am I sustained in a spiritual desert.  But really, I think the better question for me is how am I sustained in a spiritual cow pasture.  Because I live and work in a rich and beautiful community.  I just never know when I’m going to step into shit with the wider Mennonite world.  

So, here’s how I try to manage the in the cow pastures of ministry in and around my context.  I’ve broken this up into four categories:  

1–Spiritual Practices.  The two most important spiritual practices I try to cultivate are–silence and sabbath.  I’m terrible at both of them, but I’m somehow gratified to know it’s a practice, and not a perfection I’m working on.  It gives me some hope to keep at them.  

I understand silence as the practice of stilling my mind. of coming back to myself and of reconnecting what’s happening in my head to how my body is experiencing it.  I’ve practiced silence in many different ways over the years.  

I’ve done a lot of yoga as a way to practice silence.  When I first started practicing yoga, my instructor talked about taking up the practice as a way to still her monkey mind.  That idea resonated with me.  My brain goes a mile a minute.  I make lists in my head constantly.  I make lists of lists I need to make.  Yoga’s focus is on breath.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Breathe in and move your body to this pose.  Breathe out, and move your body again.  Flow through the breath.  Focus on the breath.  

There has been something really wonderful about having someone guide my breath, and guide me into silence.  All I have to do is breathe in and out when my instructor says so.  I’ve joked that yoga is the only place where I let someone else tell me what to do.

The yoga practice has given way to simpler, more affordable ways to still the monkey mind.  One my days off I like to walk in Fairmount Park, the most incredible park system in the country.  I try to walk to for several miles on my day off.  I walk in the woods, clear my head, and focus on breathing,  in and out.  

Monday is my day off, my sabbath, and I try really really hard not to do anything work related.  I don’t respond to emails, texts or calls on Mondays.  Sometimes emergencies happen, and that’s ok.  Sometimes people don’t get that I’m off, and I have to give a firm, “We’ll talk tomorrow” text or phone call.  But generally, I try to keep Mondays for quiet.  

2–This is not a spiritual discipline per se, but it is something I try to practice as much as possible–I practice opportunities to be human.  

Now maybe that sounds like a strange one to you.  Because obviously, pastors are human.  We all know well our own personal failings.  But the problem is not our humanity, but the pedestal we are put on by others.  

To go from being just Amy to having people call me Pastor Amy was a difficult transition.  There’s some heaviness associated with that title, and as shepherd of the flock you don’t want to let any one down.  I have found myself dealing with urges to present myself as more pious and godly than I am or ever could be.  

And I really try to resist that.  I’m a human in a role of leadership in the church.  But I am not perfect.  My family reminds me of the often.  As do my friends.  And even my congregation reminds me.  And I’m delighted to have people in my life that remind me that I am human.  It’s important that we practice that as much as possible, that we relish in our failures as a sign that God is still at work on us.  

3–As often as possible, I try to worship and participate in unfamiliar contexts.  For Jewish High holy days, I visit Rabbi Linda’s synagogue.  On the Saturday before Easter, I slip into the Easter Vigil service at my neighborhood Episcopal church–they  have an incredible choir and the incense is thick, and the worship is worthy of a celebration of resurrection.  On Christmas day, when most Mennonites do not have worship services, I slip into my friend’s small Lutheran church, and allow someone else to tell me the story in a way I’ve never heard it before.  

In this same vein, I participate in a weekly interfaith lectionary text study group with other clergy.  We read the scriptures we’ll all be working on for the next Sunday, and share our observations.  Rabbi Adam always brings a profound insight to us about Jesus, or Isaiah or the Psalm.  The ways that other traditions read our shared scripture keeps the scripture fresh and alive.  Hearing my Lutheran, Presbyterian, Methodist and Episcopalian friends’ read on the stories with their own theological stand serves to deepen my won understandings.  And, not only that, these folks have become my dear friends and colleagues in pastoral and social justice ministry.  They keep me sane.  

4–A final word on resilience comes from my twelve year old daughter, Reba.  I asked her a few weeks ago how she thought I was able to do this job and not lose my mind, or my soul.  She immediately had the answer in the form of a recent pop song from the artist, Sia.  She said, “Mom, you’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart.”  Thick skin, elastic heart.  I like that.  And I think that’s a pretty amazing compliment from a 12 year old.  

Ultimately, that’s what we need in this work.  I can’t take every criticism or failing to heart, because the toxicity might just destroy me.

And at the same time, we have to have an open heart for the work, our community, and the congregation we serve.  We have to, or we will not survive.

Your context does not have to be nearly as complicated as mine to live and work in a desert or a cow pasture.  We all work in places that have great potential for toxicity.  But, in all those places are people of hope, walks where we come back to ourselves and to God, and people that keep our feet on the ground.  May you cultivate those people, places and experiences in your work and ministry–in deserts or cow pastures.