Three is a Magic Number

When one is planting a new church, there is little time for reflection on much else.   All my thinking energy seems to be going into the project. My younger sister has become accustomed to me venting to her about all kinds of social issues.   Those who know me aren’t surprised to know I have a pretty big soap box.   Passionate… that’s the word.   On the phone with my sister this week, she was a little surprised to hear I didn’t have much to say about the Charleston domestic terrorist attack.   Feeling out of "thinking energy," I found myself saying, I can’t think about the attack because it will put me into a funk, and I can’t afford that.   Yep, my privilege gives me the option of what I choose to care about and what I don’t.   Sad, huh?      Well, then I watched the president’s eulogy of Rev. Pinckney.   Again my privilege crept in, tempting me to culturally misappropriate the speech… hummm… maybe I could use it at church to study theology around grace (which I thou

I just got back from my first annual conference as a voting clergy person.  Given the year I've had in ministry, the three days were a roller coaster of emotions. Here's me in my robe... first time I've worn one.  Generally I hate them, and I'll blog about #thestoleproblem at some point.  But I have to say, wearing this robe was special.  The robe actually belonged to my aunt Jane who died several years back.  Most ordination ceremonies include a time for those who feel called to ministry to come forward for encouragement and prayer.  It would be a strange sight to see a robed person going forward.  After all, anyone wearing a robe is already clergy and has answered his/her call. But I did go forward--in my robe--straight to my where my district superintendent was stationed.  She has been an incredible support to me.  I gathered courage and said: I'm coming up to tell you a story.  I first felt my call when I was 17 at my aunt's ordination ceremony.