I forget. I flat-out forget.
I forget that I am a woman pastor and that somehow my gender combined with my role is offensive to some.
I forget. And then I run into the barbed wire of suspicion or the distaste of those who are quite clear in their minds and expressed sentiments that I am abomination.
I will admit that it wounds, this sniffing around my being for the sure-to-be-found pollution lurking in my unseemly-vocationed self. Barely hidden sneers, voiced longings for the “good old days” when pastors were men and a man could have a pastor, the boycotting of community based in some part upon the gender of the Lead Pastor; all are real and on good days they roll off the sure of my soul that speaks of God’s calling of me to this work.
But some days, I gets tired. Some days, I ache for a world in which we are seen as the Christ first, and the dreaded other, second. Some days I want to let fly my anger about being assumed upon. Some days I want to weep, knowing that what I am living is a picnic compared to my sisters who have gone before.
And the waste of the power of the Holy is ongoing.