I see you. I see you rising early and pulling on pants and flats or a dress over your head, wondering if it goes with your clerical collar. I see you wondering if your outfit is OK to wear to preach without a clerical collar, wondering if you can add a belt to your dress so you have somewhere to clip your microphone, lifting up your hair to position said microphone, which is almost always designed to fit a man's head, a man's ear.
I see you nursing babies in your office, or in the church bathroom between services, or ducking your head to fasten on a breast pump, or measuring out formula to pack in your purse next to your sermon manuscript and wallet. I see you park in the church parking lot before anyone else arrives, wondering if you parked too close or too far, unlocking the doors, checking your alb in the mirror.
I watch you as you nod in response to awkward compliments and subtle jabs, as you worry if anyone heard what you meant to say, as you frantically make eye contact with your spouse. I watch as your heart swells when the little girl tells you that she, too, wants to be a pastor, and her eyes shine when you look at her and so do yours.
I see you drag yourself past your back door after services end, wearily emptying the dishwasher or filling the sink with dirty breakfast dishes and dish soap. I see you kissing kids goodnight. I see you in your chair, answering emergency care calls and rushing to the hospital after you'd already put your pajamas on.
I watch you lift up your colleagues; I hear you speak truth. I put you on each day as I put on the Armor of God: the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, shoes, to carry the good news, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the spirit, the word of God.
You stand around me like my own armor, reminding me that I am not alone.
You speak truth when sometimes the world is not ready to hear it, not from you. The ones who are ready, you cherish them and hold them in your heart: the senior women whose love and wisdom fills you up, the young men who champion your leadership, the old men who invite you to speak and really listen when you do.
Maybe the world is still not ready for you, my sisters in ministry, as it was not ready for Jesus, but he came and he spoke and he ministered anyway, like you do.
Surrounded as I am by this great cloud of witnesses, a cloud of witnesses who has been trampled and persecuted for everything from leggings, hairstyles, weight, to the sound of our voices, I can't help but think the American Church stands at a threshold when it comes to women's leadership in the church — not only in the overt patriarchy of conservative churches, but also in the so-called progressive churches.
As I watch these dynamic leaders suffer for their brilliance and their courage. And as I watch you suffer for your calling to ministry, I have to point out that this is not a story about individual women. It's not only about me or about you. We are confronting a cancer of bias, perhaps at times an unconscious reaction to #MeToo, the Trump's presidency, income and costs of child care, impossible parenting standards and devaluation of teachers, and an impossibly toxic yet superficial social media environment.
I feel called to bring these stories to light, and to challenge the American church and her leadership to root out this evil. I hope you'll join me.
But even if you're not ready to share your story, know you are never standing alone. We stand together.
I want to leave you with a Bible passage God called me to this morning: ... we have this treasure in clay jars ... (2 Corinthians 4)
You, my sisters, are this treasure. Sometimes the clay jars, our outward bodies in which we carry this unspeakable treasure, feel exhausted and worn down, confused and heavy-laden. But God's promise to us is that we hold the treasure in ourselves nonetheless, in our bodies that are not naturally sinful but naturally holy. And we will not be crushed, forsaken, and driven to despair. I invite you to dwell with me today in the words of this text. May they strengthen you as they have strengthened me.