And Your Daughters...

Although there is a shift in progress, in some places ministerial leadership is still an all boys club. I can recall my first semester at Drew. I heard the rumblings and grumblings from women whose ministerial gifts and graces were ignored, devalued, and outright rejected because they did not posses the correct genitalia that qualifies one for ministry. They were hurt. They were angry. They were silenced. They were confused. Most of these stories were voiced by women in historically and predominantly Black Baptist Churches—the very place where God has called me to serve. I must admit, I was frightened by these stories. I also must admit, I tried to make these stories my own. As much as their stories were true for them, their stories were not my story.

I am grateful to be under the leadership of a Spirit-filled and Spirit-led man, the Rev. Dr. Allen Paul Weaver, Jr., who recognizes that God has called women and men to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ. His recognition goes beyond the surface. He is not simply pleasant to women preachers; He demonstrates his understanding of Scripture by nurturing and training both women and men in the ministry. He was the first Pastor in Bethesda's 122 year history to license women to preach, to ordain women to the Gospel ministry, and to ordain female deacons (not deaconesses). He has catechized a host of women from churches in the Metropolitan New York area as they prepared to be ordained into the Gospel ministry. I am the second woman clergy person to serve in the role of Assistant to the Pastor. Currently, our ministerial staff is equally balanced female and male. He invites gifted and powerful women into our pulpit to preach beyond Women's Day and Mission Sunday. Dr. Weaver understands that gender and genetalia do not make one more (or less) fit for ministry. He understands that it is the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, obedience to a call from God, being a student of the Word, and a love for God's church that makes one fit for ministry.

The prophet Joel uttered these words—from the mouth of God—to the people of Israel:

“ And it shall come to pass afterward
That I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh;
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
Your old men shall dream dreams,
Your young men shall see visions.
And also on My menservants and on My maidservants
I will pour out My Spirit in those days." (Joel 2:28-29 NKJV)

Lest we think these words are part of the old covenant, the Apostle Peter, on the day of Pentecost when the Holy Spirit came upon the people, used these words as fodder for his sermonic message. The Spirit of God can, does, and will use men, women, boys, and girls to proclaim what thus saith the Lord.

And your daughters...

I have had the pleasure, two weeks in a row, to witness an amazing move of God in ministry in predominantly Black Baptist churches. These events let me know that God is still on the throne, God is still moving, and that eventually people will catch God's vision...

Last Sunday we attended an ordination of deacons service at the Calvary Baptist Church in White Plains, NY. This was no ordinary ordination service. This was the first time in Calvary's 75 year history that they were ordaining women to the diaconate ministry. I felt chills as Dr. Weaver preached a word of challenge and blessing over the church and the women being ordained. I felt joy for the church and for those girls and boys who will grow in the church seeing women and men servings as leaders. I felt the Spirit as authority was conferred upon these four women.

Last night, after a marathon day at church, Pastor and I traveled down to St. John's Baptist Church in Harlem for an ordination service. The ordinand was a women that Pastor had catechized and prepared for ministry. She was also a women who went before council for examination the same night that I did. Although we were strangers on that night, as we waited for our turn before council, we affirmed each other, prayed with each other and encouraged each other in the Lord. She is now my sister and a co-laborer in the Gospel ministry. I was blessed to be counted in the number of those laying hands on her as God elevated her from Minister to Reverend. I was blessed to be able to extend to her the right hand of fellowship, welcoming her into this beautiful and strange vocation. If that wasn't enough, I found out in between the laying on of hands and extending the right hand of fellowship that she was the first woman ordained to the Gospel ministry in St. John's history. In that moment, I heard the shouts of that great cloud of witnesses—voices of those Daughters of Thunder—Jarena Lee, Amanda Berry Smith, Sojourner truth, Florence Spearing Randolph, Pauli Murray echoing in my heart.

One of the most poignant moments in the ordination service was during the charge to the ordinand delivered by Dr. Weaver. He charged the ordinand to be a preacher. A preacher—nothing more and nothing less. He challenged her to be mindful of the nomenclature used to describe her ministry. He noted that when we mark ourselves—and are marked—as female preachers, we mark a distinction (which some might read as an inferiority). He called her attention—our attention—that in Christ there is neither male nor female, Greek nor Jew, bond nor free (Galatians 3:28). He reiterated the fact that it is her Spirit given gifts that will make room for her in ministry, not her gender. Although his charge was for this particular ordinand, I must admit that I kept his words and have been pondering them in my heart (Luke 2:19).

Amen and so be it.

image of Florence Spearing Randolph taken from http://ptoday.blogspot.com/2007_02_01_archive.html

Lena's Gone Home...

In the midst of (still) writing my final paper, I need to pause to honor and celebrate the life of Lena Horne (June 30, 1917-May, 9, 2010). I have few words right now to describe the powerhouse of a woman that was Lena Horne, but I will say that she exuded grace in all that she did. There was indeed a simple elegance about her. In many ways, especially for African American female actresses and singers, her life and work was a gift that opened doors and opportunities.

Here is to you, Ms. Lena. My prayer is that one day I will embody the grace that you so wonderfully lived...

Listen Up, I Got a Story to Tell... (My Senior Sermon)

Sermon Title: Listen Up I’ve Got a Story to Tell

Text: (Matthew 9:27-31)

As Jesus went on from there, two blind men followed him, crying loudly, ‘Have mercy on us, Son of David!’ ²⁸When he entered the house, the blind men came to him; and Jesus said to them, ‘Do you believe that I am able to do this?’ They said to him, ‘Yes, Lord.’ ²⁹Then he touched their eyes and said, ‘According to your faith let it be done to you.’ ³⁰And their eyes were opened. Then Jesus sternly ordered them, ‘See that no one knows of this.’ ³¹But they went away and spread the news about him throughout that district.

This is my story; this is my song. This is my story; this is my song. Fannie Crosby got it right, we are people with a story to tell. At night, after tucking our children into bed we tell them bedtime stories. On the nightly news, we get today’s top stories. Rev. Clay Evans said, “when I look back over my life, and I think things over, I can truly say that I been blessed, I have a testimony.” In other words, he has a story to tell. Most of you in this room can recall that in Christian Education we read Anne Wimberly’s “Soul Stories…” which helps us to see our stories alongside the stories of faithful, both in the biblical text and in recent history. The rapper Slick Rick—known as one of the greatest storytellers in hip-hop history—puts it this way, “Now here’s a little something that needs to be heard…” The hymn writer said, “I love to tell the story! ‘Twill be my theme in glory. To tell the old, old story of Jesus and His love…” The Notorious B.I.G. said it like this, “Listen up, I got a story to tell…”

The Notorious B.I.G wasn’t the only one with a story to tell. The telling of one’s story is an ancient tradition. Let us look at today’s text found in the Gospel according to Matthew 9:27-31.

Jesus was in the midst of performing miracles where those on the fringes, those whose bodily conditions had caused them to be outsiders, were restored to health and restored to rightful place in society: a dead girl was raised; a woman who had been bleeding for 12 years was given a healing touch; a mute man was made to talk; and, in our text for the morning, sight was restored to two blind men.

In our text, Jesus was on the move. We do not know where Jesus was going, but what we do know is that two men who were blind were following him as he went on his way. Don’t miss this: blind men following Jesus. How many of us, in the text and today, have our sight and still don’t follow after Jesus as these two men did. They were blind. We do not know the history of these men. Had they been blind from birth? Was there some kind of freak accident that caused their blindness? All we know is that they could not see. Because they could not see, they were positioned as outcasts in their society. We don’t know their occupation or how they provided for themselves, but more than likely they were beggars relying on the handouts of others. Their blindness, perhaps like Bartimeaus, would have kept them from holding a position of dignity and making a decent living. Blind. In many ways, their blindness rendered them invisible to those around them. They could not see, nor were they seen. But, as we gather from the text, they had no problem being heard.

These two blind men followed Jesus shouting, “Son of David, have mercy on us!” They raised their voices, in faith, knowing that Jesus could restore their sight. They raised their voices loud enough to get the attention of Jesus. And so, Jesus engages them[1], asks them if they believe if he can do this—though the “this” has not been explicitly stated. And, in faith, they respond “yes.” Do you believe I can do this? Yes. And so, Jesus touched their eyes and restored their sight. Friends, there is something wonderful about being touched by Jesus.

This touch was so wonderful that the men whose sight was restored spread the news about Jesus. Despite Jesus’ stern warning not to tell anyone about what had happened, they could not keep this experience to themselves. Perhaps, like the prophet Jeremiah, it was like fire shut up in their bones. Or perhaps, like the Notorious B.I.G. they said, “Listen up, I got a story to tell.” And so, they told the story. They did not stay put and tell the story; they traveled, went from place to place, around the area telling the story. I know that the text does not say that they told their own story. They text says that they spread the news about him—Jesus—around the district. Yes, that is true. But, one of the things I’ve gleaned under Dr. Simpson’s teaching is that our preaching is part proclamation of the Gospel and part testimony. Our testimony points to the particular ways in which the Gospel has been real in our lives.

In spreading the news about Jesus they had to tell their own story—how they had been blind, outcast from society, not able to see the beauty in life, kept from making a decent living, relegated to living life without dignity. In spreading the news about Jesus they had to tell their own story—how they had been in the right place at the right time, how they had to be courageous and tenacious and downright loud to get the attention of Jesus. In spreading the news about Jesus they had to tell their own story—how they believed in Jesus’ ability to do a new thing, a radical thing, to move them from blindness to seeing, to restore their sight and in turn to restore their ability to be seen by others who were not physically blind but were blind to their person. In spreading the news about Jesus they had to tell their own story—how their eyes were opened. In other words, when we tell our stories, we point to the presence and activity of God in our lives.

As Christians, we are people who find meaning and identity and hope in a particular metanarrative—the Christ story. We are also people with stories of our own that intertwine with one another’s. We are people that, like those two formerly blind men, have the Christ event all up and through our stories. We are people whose stories point to a loving, merciful, healing, and redemptive God who is ever present and ever active. We are people with a story to tell so that God’s presence and work may be known. Dr. Davis noted in Church History last week, “we are in control of how the story gets told, they are our narratives to tell.” Telling the story, our stories, can be generative, but it can also be painful. Some parts of our stories are difficult to rehearse. For the two men in our text, it may have been painful to speak about their years spent unable to see. For me, as you will see, it is often painful to speak about my years spent washed over by the blues. And yet, we tell our stories because there is yet hope in our stories.

I’ve been handling words--and lots of them--for three years now, and so, the remainder of this sermon is my testimony, my living out of this text, in the best way that I know how. My guiding question for this work is, "what would it mean to consider human life, in general, and African-American female life, in particular, sacred text?" Friends, listen up, I got a story to tell…

---

[1] On a side note, I am interested in the clandestine nature of this restoration. Jesus doesn’t restore their sight on the road, but rather when they come into the house. Jesus also warns them to be quiet about the whole incident.

*Altar created by Donna Olivia Powell

In progress...

I am still here...I promise. I'm just trying to make it to tomorrow (my senior sermon & arts internship presentation).

I've been slack in reporting in since my hiatus. I've reached my weight loss goals, which this time around has become less about a number and more about a feeling. I love my body--my grown woman curvy body--which sustains me and carries me and is able to run with ease. I feel comfortable, for real, with who I am. My boyfriend *giggle* calls me a beautiful nerd. Yep, that's about right. (I call him a nerd lover.) I have made art, good art with by boy Jameel, over the last few weeks (and even entered a campus-wide arts contest in which we were chosen as finalists). I am embodying my preacher self and it shows. What I did not understand three years ago is starting to make some sense. Ahhhh, revelation. With 26 days until graduation, all is well with my soul. I feel good. In some ways I feel like I'm glowing.

To prove that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, here is a glimpse of my work. It is still in progress. My guiding question is, "what would it mean to consider human life, in general, and African-American female life, in particular, sacred text?" Notice the halos... I have been inspired by the form of the illuminated manuscript--an ancient tradition of making texts come alive.

The first image is a photograph of my mother, my sister, and me at my uncles wedding (circa 1977). The second image is a drawing that I've rendered of that image. I still have to add color and other details.

Once the work is done, presentation over, and body restored (aka I take a series of good naps) then I will post the entire body of work along with the artist statement.

Think on These Things...

Think on these things...

So, as I was ironing my clothes yesterday, I noticed the writing on the label sewn into the dress I was about to put on. Even though I opted to put on another outfit, I was affirmed; I was reminded. In the words of the songwriter, "I believed it, I received it, I claimed it, It's mine..." Let it be yours too...

Perfectly Coifed Hair? Healthy Body?

...how about both? For years I put my hair above my health...trying to adapt my workout schedule around hairdos. Well, no more! Some might think this a frivolous post, but truth is there are lots of things that perfectly coifed hair hinders Black women from doing--working out, swimming, and sometimes (so I've heard) having sex. Black women are also disproportionately suffering from disease—hypertension, heart disease, high cholesterol, breast cancer, stress, depression, etc., etc.—most of which could be abated with regular exercise. So, hair I go...

Thanks and praise be to God, I found a way to work out my body (hard) and have not-so-perfectly coifed hair (that still looks great). The secret is a good cut. Many people associate long hair with beauty. Thankfully, I have never been that woman. I associate healthy hair with beauty. So, whether it is long or short, relaxed or natural, etc., etc., as long as it is healthy and it makes you look and feel good, then I think it is beautiful!

Admittedly, the most hair ease I felt when working out was when my hair was locked and when I used to wear it short and natural. I would be in the gym and on the track getting it in. When I relaxed my hair, my gym routine suffered. For a while, when I started running three years ago, I became the ponytail woman. For one, ponytails, especially when working out, put unnecessary tension on the hair. Secondly, and more important to me, ponytails—daily ponytails—are boooooring. And, well, I am far from boring (especially as it concerns my appearance).

When I entered Seminary I felt the pounds packing on, so I braided it up and hit the gym. Well, the reality of homework set in and my routine got jacked up. Fast forward 2 years and 40 pounds later... I made a commitment to my health, whether my hair liked it or not (btw, I'm 20 pounds lighter than I was in September). I also wanted to maintain my relaxed style, not because I have a hang-up about straight hair and beauty, but because right now I'm feeling it. In early October I went to a new stylist on a friends recommendation. This stylist is known for her wisdom, her insistence on healthy hair, and her skills with a pair of scissors. I told her I wanted my hair to be able to work while I work out. Away she went. What emerged was a cut that looks good when I do nothing to it, looks better when I do something to it, and still manages to look great when I work out.

When my workout consisted of walking only, I would wrap my hair at night, comb it down in the morning, pop on a headband, and hit the pavement. When I returned home I would let it air dry as I got ready for the day and roll out. These days, I've taken to pin curling it. Talk about a gift from God; Five days and three intense workouts after getting my hair done I have yet to use a curling iron or any other "tool of destruction" (a term my friend Shanee Yvette coined).

Here are some pics...before (aka when the hair was perfect), pin curled (my style of choice during a run), and after (letting the pin curl loose):

(Before before...aka after leaving the salon...Tuesday)

(Before...pin curled and ready to hit the pavement...Saturday)

(After...Post working out, air drying, and taking the curls out...Saturday, again)

(After after...wrapped overnight, ready to go to praise God...Sunday)

When I Grow Up...

...I want to be just like—no, more brilliant and fabulous than—Nancy Lynne Westfield and Heather Murray Elkins. If that is humanly possible. But they continue to teach me, just like Mother Mary, with God all things are possible.

These two women are beautifully bold, beautifully creative, beautifully brilliant, and beautifully beautiful. It is beautiful to be in their presence—to watch and listen. They know things that I want to know. They be in the world in ways that I want to be in the world. They are Master Teachers. They embody what they teach. They are my teachers, in and out of the classroom. They make me think. They make me laugh. They sometimes even make me cry. They trust my voice. They trust my wisdom. They push me, hard sometimes. They do things like teach classes that do the work of mending the rupture that has been created between body, mind, and spirit. They have helped me to heal my ruptures so that I may usher others into spaces of healing. They write books that matter. They make me want to write books that matter. They are radically different, it seems, yet they—in spirit and in truth—are kin folk. They are cut from the same cloth—some beautifully woven tapestry with reds and purples and blues.

Lynne is a radical in the best sense of the word. She brings brilliant Black folk to Drew to engage us in the work of God-Talk with Black Thinkers. She is brilliant Black folk herself. She brings artists and healers to Drew to engage us in the work of Spirituality and Imagination. She is an artist and healer herself.

Heather Elkins is a storyteller. She not only writes and speaks poetry; She is a poem. She moves in verse. She is a collector of all things holy and can find the holy in all things.

So, when I grow up—rather, as I am growing into my self—I want to be just like them: brilliant and bold and free...

Image of N. Lynne Westfield shot by Jameel Morrison (taken from http://depts.drew.edu/tsfac/westfield/)

Image of Heather Elkins sketched by Bon Jeong Koo (taken from http://depts.drew.edu/tsfac/helkins/)

Think on these things...

I came across this Haiku written by Sonia Sanchez yesterday. It is from the book titled, Like the Singing Coming Off the Drums. Think on these things...

what is done is done

what is not done is not done

let it go...like the wind.

Scars...

I just came in from having dinner with a beautiful seventeen year-old young woman here in Gallatin. By most people's standards, she is ugly—disgusting, even. By most people's standards, she isn't going anywhere in life. By most people's vision, she'll never amount to anything. But the moment I saw her two weeks ago, I knew that there was something special inside of her and that she had a future with great promise ahead. So I invited her to dinner.

I picked her up promptly at 6pm. Later she joked that she thought that I was going to be late, because, well, black people are always late. I responded that I was an "on-time negro." We laughed. Anyway, when I arrived at her house, there was a gang of folk, mostly kids, outside in her neighborhood. As she walked out of the house, everyone stopped and stared.  Perhaps it was my New Jersey plates. Perhaps it was her outfit. Here was a young woman who I'd previously seen in too-tight, too-short clothes, but she got dressed up for dinner. Heels and all. It was clear from her walk that she was uncomfortable in her shoes, but she took the time to put herself together and I appreciated that. She had on an asymetrical top with one shouler bare.  As we walked from my car to Chili's, I noticed on a huge scar on her shoulder. Sadly, it wouldn't be the only scar I would see during the night. 

You see, she has a 2 year-old daughter, is a high-school drop-out without a GED, has two felony charges, and just got in trouble last week. She also lost her virginity to her father at the age of seven, has held that secret from the person she loves most (her mother), has been raped, miscarried babies, abused at the hands of boyfriends, and has been bounced around from home to home and state to state. She's been diagnosed bi-polar, is a cutter, and yet, she has a light inside of her that God allowed me to see. Her light is undeniably bright.

I didn't want to be fake with her. So I began the conversation with "I am a teacher, an artist, but I am also a minister. I want you to know who you are out with. I asked you to come to dinner with me because I see something inside of you and I know you've been through a lot in your short life. But I also know that you have so much more living to do and I want to know how you want to live your life." She went from being this hard-rock girl who scowled most of the times I had seen her to a bubbly, smiling, teenage girl. But still there were the scars—visible and invisible. During the time we spent together, she did most of the talking and I listened. I listened with my whole body—my ears, my eyes, my heart, and my soul. Peppered throughout our conversation were tidbits from my own life. She saw a well put together woman, but I showed her discoloration and marks that point to my own life scars. Surprisingly for her, we had some scars in common. I shared with her the liniment and salve that I used to heal. 

Despite her scars, she is hopeful. She wants more for herself and her daughter. She is a dreamer. I gave her some pointers on how to make what she wants happen. I encouraged her to take inventory of her life, including her so-called friends who don't have the same dreams that she does, and get rid of anything and anyone who isn't helping her to grow. I encouraged her, despite her past abuse, to recognize that her body is indeed a temple, worthy of love and respect. I encouraged her to forgive herself. I encouraged her to shake off her haters and to move towards the new life she envisions for herself. I encouraged her to walk in the light that is so desperately trying to break free. I encouraged her to hide her dreams in her heart, to write them on paper, to speak them aloud, and to measure every decision by whether or not they will help her dreams to come true. I encouraged her to believe God...

After cheesecake and brownies and almost being in tears, she and I left Chili's. I dropped her home. It was hard to leave her there. I wanted to take her with me. I wanted to show her something different. I wanted to take her under my wing so she could discover and develop the strength in her own wings. But instead I dropped her back to the place where many of her wounds were inflicted. Needless to say, my heart was aching. 

My heart was aching, but then I remembered what God allowed me to see within her. I remembered that scars are marks of wounds, burns and sores, but they are also signs of healing. Tonight, I pray that she will be completely healed—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I pray that her wounds will be reminders of how resilient she is. I pray that her scars will bear witness to how a life can be transformed. I pray that her scars will prevent another girl or woman, especially her daughter, from being wounded. I pray that one day, someone will love her, scars and all.