saturday, as i sat in a sewing class channeling all three braincells left in my head toward learning how to use the serger my mom gave me for christmas, the teacher looked at me, shook her head, and said,

“mary allison, why do you have to be so different?”

she was right. the supplies i had purchased were different from everyone else’s. they were passable but different, and my serger came with it’s own unique requirements for threading. these were the differences to which she was referring. but as i answered, i had a whole host of other experiences in mind.

“i’ve been asking myself the same question for my whole life!” i retorted.

of course i know that in the grand scheme of things, i am not so unique. i know a gal who divides her time between climbing rocks in alaska and farming cotton in alabama. i am just a gal who divides my time between mothering, ministering, and co-owning a fabric shop. i am also probably just like everyone else in the world who is struck, every once in a while, by the overwhelming sense that i am an oddball.

but these days, in the context of church, these moments of self-oddball-realization are no longer an occasional thing for me. i have grown to anticipate and guard against inevitable comments about my clothes (yellow jeans! oh my!) and my hair (an unnatural red). but these remarks only hurt me because they are layered on top of the mean things i tell myself about why i no longer fit in in church. i am a bad person because i don’t believe what everyone else believes. on top of that, i am an ungrateful person because i don’t think that church should exist to glorify the church. clearly, i have not become the person those loving church people had in mind when they were contributing to my upbringing. i am so, disappointingly different.

last summer, my friend erin lane asked me to write an essay for an upcoming book entitled talking taboo: american christian women get frank about faith. i was to write about some aspect of my faith and experience of church that seems too shameful or too risky to admit. i quickly said yes because almost every thought in my head about faith and church feels taboo. finally, i had landed in a field in which i am a true expert! i submitted several topics for consideration, all of which positioned me to speak as a christian woman. each time, erin wrote back and asserted that she wanted me to speak as a christian woman leader… a minister.

i tried this. i tried drawing from the experiences i have had in ministry that i imagine closely resemble the vocations of my more normal, less disruptive colleagues. but this felt so inauthentic that i wrote erin and told her that i didn’t think i could contribute to the project. she left the window open for me to participate, and i told myself that if i woke up one morning with an essay idea that would allow me to speak from a place of sincerity and fulfill erin’s requests, i would give it another shot.

as it happened, i did wake up one morning, several weeks after the deadline, with an urgent impulse to write. i cranked out an entire essay in a couple of hours, turned it in, and marveled for weeks to follow about how wonderful it was to feel so at home while doing something ministry-related. i was able to cherish this feeling for a couple of months before my fears set in. in the months and weeks and days before the book was to go to the publisher, i agonized over whether to withdraw my piece from the project. i was afraid then, and i remain afraid, that the level of truth-telling that shapes my essay will translate into a solid and obvious agreement among all parties involved that there is, indeed, no place for me in the faith community of loving people who raised me. everyone will know what i have known for years: i am a bad person because i don’t believe what everyone else believes. on top of that, i am an ungrateful person because i don’t think that church should exist to glorify the church. i am so, disappointingly different.

the book is set to come out in october. my face and unnaturally red hair are on the cover. and inside, my essay is entitled, “my secret buddhist life.”

there is an indigogo campaign going on now to raise money to host conferences and virtual opportunities for women all over the country to
“talk taboo” with one another. perhaps the chance to talk about the ways in which religion has shaped our shameful inner monologues will result in wonderful, at-home feelings like those i had in the few months after i turned in my essay. if this is something you’d like to help promote, please visit the link above.

meanwhile, if anyone knows of an ashram in india that’s got an opening in late october for a woman wearing yellow jeans, please let me know!

every year on new year’s eve, andy and i (and some of our dear friends) set personal intentions for the year ahead by giving it a name.  perhaps the most significant year-naming for me was “the year of rearranging,” which resulted in this proud post.

but the year of rearranging is over. i am now 19 days into “the year of gratitude.”

if you are rolling your eyes with associations of new-agey, blissed-out, shallow pronouncements of happiness, designed to mask all that is wrong with this world, STOP RIGHT NOW. if you were thinking more along the lines of  the dalai lama, you can stop that too. sadly, he and i have little in common.

i simply found myself, during those last few days of 2011, on my knees (not praying but scraping already-chewed-gum off of the kitchen floor); having a mountain top experience (wherein i observed my children happily eating greasy goldfish crackers, on the couch, in my bedroom, under a two-weeks-high mountain of clean laundry); in the wake of a come-to-jesus-talk with my husband (that didn’t involve jesus at all but rather another baby, the third one that we won’t be attempting to have due to our divergent viewpoints about how many people we want in this household); and i realized that much of what enrages me about my life has to do with the way that i form, internalize, solidify, and live by GREAT EXPECTATIONS. and by “great” i mean sometimes soul-killing.

my friend, erika, gave me a little ledger for christmas where there is a space to name what i am grateful for each day. i confess that i have no idea where i put that thing. but it (and she) inspired me to spend the year taking an honest look at the beauty and bounty that is instead of the beauty and bounty that is not.

the best thing about the year of gratitude is that it does not come with any presumptions of forward progress. all i have to do each day is name one moment in which i witness a spark of the divine outside of myself and one moment in which i witness a spark of the divine inside of myself (the latter is the more difficult). i send these brief musings to myself in daily emails, which, unlike all of the other emails in my inbox, i do not expect myself to read unless i want to.

so far i have been grateful for things as shallow and profound as yoga, the bird’s third birthday, trader joe’s dark-chocolate-pistachio-covered toffee, our new montreat house, and this song. andy’s year-naming has given me much to celebrate as well, but more on that later.

this is less about an attitude change (though one might say that i need one!) than it is about clarity. both of my vocations, motherhood and ministry, take place where great expectations meet mixed messages about the value of tradition and the right way to do things. i cannot distill any of that into something that makes sense, but i can intentionally notice the good in my life.

it’s about doing something daily that is positive, not overwhelming, and just for me.

to mark the season of advent and the accompanying waiting and yearning for new life in all of its various forms, i’m posting a sermon i preached this time last year at shady grove church. it’s the most honest and vulnerable sermon i’ve ever preached, and i’m including it in the MakeShift revolution because it is equally influenced by my ministry and my motherhood. the texts of the day were jeremiah 33:14-16 and luke 21:25-36. interspersed throughout the text are some block prints i did in 2007 for the advent bulletin covers atidlewild church.

*     *     *

The “baby watch” had begun. The future grandparents called every 12 hours or so to ask about signs of labor. The great-aunt was on standby, ready to babysit the two-year-old on a moment’s notice. The nursery had been complete for a good month, the baby clothes had been washed, folded, and put away, the name had been selected, and the birthing plan had been mapped out. The new car seat was secure in the car. The two-year-old endured periodic explanations about what was about to happen, even though he really just wanted to play with his play dough in peace. And everywhere she went, that is, everywhere I went, I was a walking, waddling, symbol of Advent, pregnant, like Mary, during the days leading up to last Christmas. 

Meanwhile, the season of Advent set the stage with its rich stories. The prophets were prophesying the coming of a new king. John the Baptist was urging his congregation, the brood of vipers, to repent. Mary and Joseph saddled up a pack animal and went to be registered. The young adult Jesus was telling his disciples, and us, to look for the signs of the second coming. The weeks unfurled to the sights of Christmas lights, and the sounds of TV ads meant to herald, or perhaps beg for, salvation for our broken economy. There were the usual to-do lists and the painfully unusual absences left by death and empty nests. I don’t need to tell you what the holidays are like. We all know that strange hybrid of hope and impatience, excitement and desperation that comes when we are expecting God to break into our midst. But for me, last year, it really did all come down to the baby. My baby, who threatened all winter to make an early arrival and beat the baby Jesus to the punch.

I spent some time last year thinking that being very pregnant during Advent gave me a special entry point into this season of preparation and waiting. This brought an added measure of importance to the usual third-trimester symptoms: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking my own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to my schedule by eating spicy food, standing on my head, walking laps around the mall, etcetera.

But then I remembered that all of my Advents before had been marked by the same symptoms. Perhaps you suffer from some of these inflictions too: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking your own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to your schedule. After all, Advent’s vulnerable waiting wrapped up in the frenzy of pomp and circumstance transforms us all, every year, into people who are expecting, whether we’ve ever been pregnant or not.

But it was not just my pregnancy that connected me so intimately to the Advent story last year. It was another common thread that weaves through the prophecies and the gospels, through my story, and perhaps yours too. I was lured into believing that I knew what to expect when I was expecting.

The people of the houses of Israel and Judah are certain that the coming king will be a ruler, like the rulers of their day. Jeremiah TELLS them that the coming king will establish justice and righteousness in the land, and they just assume that this justice and righteousness will happen in the usual way – by killing off their enemies. They are lured into believing that they know what to expect when they are expecting.

The people who crowd around Jesus in the gospel of Luke, and later many Christians of our time are certain that the second coming of our king will be signaled by the sun, moon, and stars; distress among the nations; and the roaring of the sea and the waves. Jesus TELLS them and us that the Son of Man is coming on a cloud, and from then on our generation of followers has just assumed that this event can be quantified, predicted, screen lit, packaged, and sold. We, that is many Christians of our day and time, are lured into believing that we know what to expect when we are expecting.

The ultrasound tech told my husband and me that our baby was to be a boy. And because we already had one of those — a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder –  we just assumed that the baby growing in my womb would be another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder. We were lured into believing that we knew what to expect when we were expecting.

But the people of the houses of Israel and Judah did not get what they were expecting. Their king was a baby, and though he eventually did work for justice and righteousness, he didn’t follow the military model. Instead, he preached about forgiveness and nonviolence

The people who crowd around Jesus in Luke and even now don’t always get what we are expecting either. There are glimmers of the second coming all the time but the cataclysmic event that hits it big in the box office does not seem imminent, nor does longing for it heal the longing in our souls

And a test in the sixteenth week of my pregnancy revealed that my expectations were not accurate either. My little boy had an elevated risk for downs syndrome. Downs or no downs, he could still be a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder, but I could no longer cling to the silly notion that my second son would be just like my first.

Twice, I endured procedures designed to tell me for sure whether or not my son had Downs. Twice these procedures failed. I was left with no choice but to move through the season in a sort of embodied uncertainty. I had no idea what to expect while I was expecting, and I realized then that nobody else REALLY does either.

Well, this was an entirely different kind of waiting than I had signed up for. The place in my heart that I was preparing for another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder slowly died, and in its place grew a reluctant, and eventually exuberant openness to this baby, who would change my life forever. Advent comes each year with its traditions and stories, associations, and plans. We have learned to prepare our hearts for these things, so comforting with their certainty. But only the uncertainty, only the wild prospect of an unpredictable savior, only this different kind of reluctant and eventually exuberant waiting can really open us up to the fullness of new life that is promised. Sometimes our expectations keep us from the radically receptive kind of expecting to which we are called.

My son, [the bird], was born on January 17^th of this year, and he does not have Downs Syndrome. But in my opinion, the real victory in this story lies elsewhere. From the moment the doctor handed me my baby, fresh from the womb, I felt nothing but unconditional love. The question about Downs that had ruled so much of my pregnancy had no relevance at all in the face of this love, so powerful, this baby, so divine. Miraculously, I had made room for him, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

This is how my little [bird] taught me what Advent is all about before he was even 5 minutes old. It’s about opening our hearts to a God who is never limited by our expectations. It’s about embracing uncertainty. It’s about casting aside all of those things that have no relevance at all in the face of love and divinity. But most of all, it’s about making room for the baby, born in the city of David, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

AMEN.

“what made you decide to become a minister?”

i have been on the receiving end of this question for over ten years now, and i have spouted off my answer the way a runner trots down a well-worn path, pointing out landmarks (female minister role models, a life-long fascination with mystery) as i (r)amble on. but every once in a while, a wise questioner will cut me off and say,

“no, really. what do YOU get out of having the title of minister, wearing the robe, the instant intimacy, et cetera. what is it about you that needs that?”

divinity school afforded me the kind of introspection required to honestly answer this question. i became more and more comfortable owning not only my purest and most altruistic reasons for entering the ministry, but also my need to be needed, the relief i found in the robe’s instant validation, and the sense of inclusion i felt when others let me in to their deepest experiences of joy and despair. the key, i learned back then, was to own these things and keep them in check. dishonesty about my own fulfillment would result in harm to others.

nobody ever asks me anymore why i went into the ministry. perhaps this is because i have made choices that translate into a vocational hybrid of writing and working floor puzzles, leading study groups and changing diapers, performing the occasional religious ritual and the kids’ nightly bedtime rituals. but the irony is that now that so little of my time is spent wearing a robe, being needed by other adults, and treading lightly on the sacred ground of others’ intimate affairs, some of my more base reasons for entering the ministry are more obvious to me than they ever have been before.

reorienting myself to the very different kind of validation and intimacy that comes with motherhood is a continuous challenge for me. sometimes i feel as if there is a vacuum (or perhaps a shark steam mop) where my healthy ego used to be, and a tinge a loneliness that was formerly squelched by the stream of college students making their way to my college chaplaincy office.

but i am still grateful for the two wise questioners in my life, the little boys who don’t care at all about my female minister role models or my fascination with mystery. they don’t care whether i’m wearing clergy garments or even undergarments. they love me just the same.

the key now is for me to learn to follow their lead.

a few weeks ago, my friend maryann reminded me of this wonderful quotation about motherhood and ministry, found in the equally wonderful book listening for god by renita weems. i think it can be easily stretched to speak to all mothers who are modifying and trying to integrate their visions of vocation and motherhood. i forgot to breathe while i was reading these words: 

“i will never be the writer i would have been had i not become a mother. nor will i be the minister or professor i could have been if i hadn’t had to suffer the interruptions of a sulking child or the vibes of a brooding husband transmitted under the door of my study. i give up writing the book i might have written or the sermon i might have preached every time i wander out of my study and follow the smell of popcorn wafting in the air, follow it in to the family room, where the rest of the family is watching the lion king for the forty-second time. i’ll never be able to recapture the fine sentences swirling in my head, or the fresh revelations that were about to lay hold of me. but for the joy of getting down on the cold hardwood floor and singing, “hakuna matata,” i’ll settle for bits and pieces of revelation god sends my way, and see what, if anything, i can make of them when i can. because today is today, and that’s all i have.”

and now, in light of a restless night with the bird and the inevitable morning-after fog that now surrounds me, i’m going to “wander out of my study,” as renita writes. happy thursday!

and p.s. renita still managed to be a wonderful professor. i was lucky enough to have her for hebrew bible at vanderbilt.

[the source for this post can be found on the bibliography page located in the sidebar to your right.]

when i was in divinity school, i was surrounded by people who had very specific callings. some knew they would be working as chaplains in prisons. others  were going on to work in public policy. one of my favorite colleagues was dead set (pun intended) on entering the field of thanatology.

because my husband’s job ties us to memphis, my vocational narrative has always been a bit different. out of necessity, my calling has always been to find meaningful work in ways that  fit well within the parameters of meaningful family life. luckily, i don’t have the slightest predisposition toward teaching snow skiing in colorado or studying the chestnut blight in appalachia. the field of ministry is, itself, a vast city with major thoroughfares and meandering back roads. somehow, i have always known that the backroads are my place.

after the monkey was born, i gave up the traveling supply preaching gigs and the late-night college chaplaincy commitments. i traded these things for a regular preaching gig in a nearby church and the chance to lead several weekday morning study groups. when the bird was born, i cut back on the preaching even more but started this blog and increased the number of other commitments such as weddings, funerals and baptisms. all the while, i have been thankful for a vocation that can take on so many forms.

but somewhere along the way, in trading the risky thrill of writing on a sunday morning deadline for the even pace of study-group-prep, i have sacrificed some things that i am good at. and, in so doing, i have sacrificed some of the meaning. but i don’t know how to restore meaning to my vocation without taking away from the meaning of family life.

so i’m trying something new. i have removed myself from some major, long-standing work commitments, AND i am not going to fill this time immediately with other work commitments.  i am uncomfortable with empty space, and saying no, and the long rambling answer i give people when they ask if i work outside of the home. but for the first time in a long time, i’m beginning to get that old divinity school feeling back — that blind sort of trust that meaningful work will present itself if i am open and patient.

i guess, in a sense, i am returning to my place in the world: the indirect but infinitely interesting back roads.

as a minister and a child of a dynamic presbyterian church, i have been a part of my fair share of foot washings. in fact, very few maundy thursdays or youth retreats have passed without the uneasy descent into vulnerability that occurs when one clumsily liberates the feet from their hiding places of leather, canvas, buckles, and laces, and offers them, in all of their clammy smelliness, to a fellow community member possessed of a rag and water bowl.

it’s too much raw humanity, yet we do it anyway. except for those times when, in the interest of time and the preservation of dignity, we wash hands instead. i have always chuckled at this modification of ritual and this attempt to clean up something that is intentionally messy. until i encountered these:

until i had boys, i did not know it was possible for the putrid smell of a post-game NFL locker room to be contained so neatly in a children’s size nine keen sandal. and i never dreamed that the still-sweet-smelling curly head of an 18-month-old could be part of the same body held upright by tar-bottomed peds. i wash two sets of powerfully smelly feet (almost) every night now. and i am here to tell you: it is not an exercise for the faint of heart.

the level of fith and sacremental beauty present during my kids’ bathtimes far outweighs anything i have ever experienced in all of my 33 years of church membership and six years of ordained ministry.  some rituals happen in gothic stone churches, and others happen in standard issue tubs. but both are grand entrances into deep spiritual intimacy — chances to make and mark meaning as we put one foot in front of the other.

[to get the mothers of invention ball rolling, i’ll be the guinea pig…]

first name: mary allison

age: 33 

current city: memphis, tn

living situation: i live in a house in the heart of the city with my husband, two little boys (ages 12 months and 3 years), and a dog.

occupation: presbyterian (u.s.a.) minister

how do you structure your time and space? i lead a study group once a week at one church and once a month at another. i also preach once a month. i prepare for all of these things in 15-minute increments while my children are napping and/or writing on the walls. this kind of ministry job is rare because it allows me to do the elements of the vocation that i love and also spend most of my time at home.

i don’t really have a schedule for taking care of household chores but i cook, grocery shop, do laundry, and sew in little snatches of time that emerge here and there. my standards for cleanliness are very low. i trade a messy house for more time to spend working and playing with my kids.

my husband and i get a sitter for one night of every weekend so we can have a dinner to ourselves, and my mom keeps my kids one day each week. the weekly “day off” allows me to lead a study group that morning and have that afternoon to myself. my husband is on kid duty on sunday mornings when i am preaching. my oldest is in school three mornings a week, and occasionally, i’ll hire a college student to care for my kids for a few hours during the week so I can exercise, catch up on writing, and do other career-related things.

using the metaphor of seasons to describe the phases of women’s lives,

-what are the particular challenges and highlights of your current season? working part-time and from home really gives me the face time i want to have with my kids. i also like that i can take advantage of unexpected windows of free time to write sermons and prepare for study groups. however, this kind of flexibility comes with a significant pay cut and very little professional recognition. sometimes i long for the kind of positive regard from the community that my husband receives as a traditional full time employee and businessman. when i’m at my worst, i spend a lot of time multi-tasking. i am at my best when i draw good boundaries and emphasize quality over quantity in terms of things that do not involve my children. the satisfaction from this season comes in experiencing the world through the eyes of small children, working with a boss who understands the demands of motherhood, planting sunflower seeds with my sons, et cetera.

-what season(s) preceded this one? before i became a part-time minister and full time mother, i was the full-time minister to students at a small liberal arts college. i loved this job, and i miss it very much.

-what season(s) might your future hold? perhaps, when my children get a little older, i will take more time to write, travel, or finish the license requirements to be a marriage and family therapist. i hope the next seasons surprise me though. i love life’s unpredictable good fortune!

favorite family activity: riding the trolley in downtown memphis. it costs our whole family a total of $2, the kids are contained and full of glee, and there are plenty of opportunities to stop, eat, and observe along the way.

favorite solo activity: yoga, jogging, hiking, quilting

sources of inspiration: people who are authentic, creative, and loving; gee’s bend quilters;  my kiddos

best MakeShift moment: i used to take my newborn with me to visit parishioners who were ill or unable to leave their homes. i quickly learned that his presence was much more healing to folks than my own! i have also sacrificed many rolls of toilet paper for the sake of my children’s entertainment while i am sermon-writing.

find mary allison at www.themsrevolution.com

the first two photographs in this post were taken by carol curry reach.

it was christmas eve, and my husband was at the grocery store stocking up for the following morning’s family gathering. young couple nate and nicole sat before me in my living room as they perused sample prayers for their upcoming wedding. i, their officiating minister, had envisioned a professional chat, wherein i would outline their choices for the service and the theological significance conveyed by each. i would pay careful attention to the dynamic and energy of the couple’s relationship so that i could craft an honest and fitting wedding homily for their big day.

i think it is safe to assume that nate and nicole afforded their minister many glimpses into their relationship during our time together but, sadly, i did not take note of any of them. instead, i held my fussy 11-month-old in the wake of his failed nap and tried hard to ignore his obvious need for a new diaper. the eternally gracious couple would have accommodated my need to dash to the nursery for a quick pants change, but such a trip would have left my three-year-old under the christmas tree, where he was already beginning to open countless presents, despite my sternest of mommy-stares.

when i was raised in a culture, influenced so heavily by women’s progress and the promise that women could “have it all” (a fulfilling career, a joyous family life, and time for self, others, and matters of the spirit), this christmas eve circus and the superhero existence required for such fullness of life were not what i had pictured. i am a full-time mother and a part-time minister, whose partner is as supportive financially, domestically, and emotionally as he can possibly be. even so, i confess that if this chaotic and often isolating juggling act is the picture of “having it all,” then i no longer want it all.

there is such a vast territory between the ultra-traditional women’s roles of long ago and the ultra-idealistic standards for women’s success that are still prized by our culture and dangled before us like distorted fun house mirrors. who lives in this territory? are there women out there who are blazing a new path to a more balanced existence, who are replacing these old models for motherhood with the creative hum-drum of their daily lives?

it is my hunch that many wonderful, creative women live in this territory, and i am hereby making it my job to highlight as many of them as i can. it is my hope that by putting our stories together, we could go from creating healthier lives for ourselves, to creating a healthier culture of motherhood for the world.

let the MakeShift revolution begin!

the first picture in this post was taken during my brother’s wedding, an experiment in chaos wherein i was the officiant, my eldest was the ring bearer, and my husband was a groomsman. the second picture reveals the mess my children made during the last dinner party i hosted. good thing our guests had a sense of humor!