All posts by aporterfield2013

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About aporterfield2013

I'm a minister and mother who is always interested in learning new things, listening to stories, and living into grace.

Virginia Taylor: Clarice Davis: Ordinary Saint, Extraordinary Love

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Maybe it was the passing of Maya Angelou or Anne Thomas Neil, matron saint of Baptist women, that made me stop and re-evaluate my life. These women made a real impact on the world.

I’m over the halfway mark and I’ve barely made a dent.

These were the thoughts I took into my most recent session with my spiritual director. I was struggling to balance “to whom much is given, much is required” with “be still and know that I am God.” What is it we are here on earth for; what is my purpose in life?

I only need to look to my dear friend Clarice to find the answer to that question.

I met Clarice when she was in her mid-70’s. She and her husband retired to Chapel Hill and began attending our church. She was one of those people you couldn’t help but notice, like a bright light in a dark room. She was breathtakingly beautiful and radiated love.

Clarice Davis and Grace Taylor, the author's daughter
Clarice Davis and Grace Taylor, the author’s daughter

It was the love that connected me to her, and not just me, but my husband and daughter. In a very short period of time, we had been “adopted” by her, really made a part of her family. Clarice had an endless capacity to love; she loved her parents and brother and sister, her husband, her in-laws, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and cousins. And then she loved her friends, all of her friends; and she loved them deeply and sincerely.

Clarice, too, questioned whether she had done enough in this life. I’m so glad that I had the opportunity to tell her that I thought her special gift was the way she loved people. That kind of love doesn’t come out of a void. It comes from being loved by God.

Clarice was loved by God and loved God back, and that love then overflowed onto to everyone she met.

What is it we are here on earth for? To be loved by God, to love God back, and to love our “neighbors.” We might not make the headlines for doing that, but we will make an impact. I know Clarice made a dent in my life that will always be with me.

Clarice died on Easter Sunday this year; but her love remains.

I’m going to quit wondering what people will say about me when I die and do what I was created to do—love God and love people, just like my dear “ordinary saint” friend, Clarice.

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Rev. Virginia Taylor has served several churches in North Carolina, most recently as the pastor of Lystra Baptist Church in Chapel Hill. Currently, she is an itinerant pastor and the Community and University Relations Coordinator for the William and Ida Friday Center for Continuing Education at UNC Chapel Hill.

Becky Brooks Jackson: Of Saints and Steel Guitars:
An Improbable Friendship

Mitch Albom has Tuesdays with Morrie. I have Thursdays with Robert Vaughn.

 Robert and June showed up one Sunday morning at Windsor Park Baptist Church where I served along with other worship leaders in a praise band. An elderly couple in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, the Vaughns appeared in all ways to be “churched.”

It was no surprise to find out then, that Robert was a retired Southern Baptist Pastor. Time had already siphoned his strength and diminished his vigor, but on this first Sunday after relinquishing independence and moving in with their grown son, Robert and June wanted to worship with Christian brothers and sisters. Many of us gathered around this impressive, silver-haired gentleman in his suit and tie.

Though frail in form, Robert still possessed a thundering, ministerial voice and our pastor, Grover Pinson, often called on him to pray a blessing before a meal or a benediction over our congregation. Like the booming bells in Wagner’s Parsifal,[1]<Brother Robert’s simple utterance, “Our Father…” silenced colicky babies, fidgety children, and possibly all the screeching crickets within a square mile. Windsorites certainly perked up when Robert called on God, but I wondered if his voice didn’t cause the great cloud of witnesses to turn and pause as well.

 One Sunday, Grover informed us that this solemn, stately pastor also played a mean steel guitar. That night we worshiped with our usual praise band accented by this Grand Ole Opry octogenarian. It was a hoot!

A few years after Robert and June joined Windsor, I was slated to preach my very first sermon in chapel at Logsdon Seminary on our South Texas School of Christian Studies’ campus in Corpus Christi. Unbeknownst to me, Pastor Grover spread the word and on the day of chapel he showed up with a number of our sainted senior adults, including Brother Robert.

I was pretty sure that Brother Robert possessed a strong strain of fundamentalism and wondered if he had, perhaps, come to spy out my liberty. Yet after I preached, he told me I did a fine job and exuberantly thanked me for the message.

The next Sunday, he called me over to his pew and when I leaned down to greet him, he declared, “I want you to know that I have NO PROBLEM with you preaching! You are called!”

Now, my granddaddy was also a Southern Baptist preacher, and while he was living would not have condoned me preaching from any pulpit. So Brother Vaughn’s pronouncement felt to me like a surrogate blessing from my own grandfather.

Since our initial meeting, Pastor Vaughn has endured heart surgery and multiple set-backs, including months with a respirator which ravaged his clarion voice. Now he speaks in a whisper and requires a breath for every word or two. This man who loves to sing and worship, can only stand briefly and whisper lyrics.

To make his loyalties clear to his fellow congregants, in every service and on every song, whether favorite old hymn or contemporary praise, he follows the lyrics in the bulletin and lifts his free hand in praise to God. Every music minister needs at least one Robert Vaughn in her congregation!

Robert Vaughn 1
I spend a little time on most Thursdays with Brother Robert, but I have lost track of when our meetings started. He asked me one day to come by to play hymns and sing for him. Then, after a few visits, he admitted to me that he wanted to play the steel guitar again, but needed someone to sing to keep him on track. Otherwise, “Pass me Not, O Gentle Savior,” frequently segued into “I Need Thee Every Hour,” and his practice sessions became frustrating. So now we worship together with an old steel guitar and my rapidly aging voice. And we share joy.

The Wednesday night after my new congregation called me to be their worship leader, Pastor Grover telephoned me and described how Brother Vaughn made his way to Windsor’s business meeting, shuffling along with his walker. Robert stood and in his halting, whispering voice, made a motion that the congregation license me to the gospel ministry! What a gift of affirmation!

Though we are no longer members of the same local church, Robert and I still meet once a week as health and schedules allow. We sing through at least five, sometimes as many as ten hymns. (Every now and then, with an impish grin on his face, Robert breaks out into to some Hank Williams or Johnny Cash, too!) We share concerns and then we pray for each other. We pray for strength to serve and breath to praise until the day God calls us home.

Like Robert, I love to worship God through music and I thrive on leading others to do the same. If the Lord allows me to live as long as Robert, my voice will become more brittle, my asthma will scar my lungs, and arthritis will steal the dexterity I need to play the piano or cello. But Robert is preparing me to live a life of praise when the gifts of youth are gone. And when at last “nothing in my hand I bring, safely to thy cross I’ll cling.”

At the end of each visit, Brother Vaughn always thanks me for my time and asks me not to forget him… Forget him? That is unthinkable! As Paul reminded his beloved church at Philippi, “I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always offering prayer with joy in my every prayer for you all, in view of your participation in the gospel from the first day until now.  For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.” ~ Philippians 1:3-6

 

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Becky Jackson served as a pastor’s wife as well as a volunteer church musician and worship leader for twenty-four years before answering a personal call to ministry. When her husband, Doug, became a professor, Becky went back to school and completed a BA in Music from Texas A&M-Corpus Christi (2010), and an MDiv from Logsdon Seminary (2012). Between those two degrees, she trained and completed her first marathon. Becky serves as the worship leader at Lexington Baptist Church, Corpus Christi, TX. She and her husband Doug have two grown sons, Jay and Landry, and a rescued Bullmastiff named Spurgeon.

[1] http://www.roh.org.uk/news/ringing-the-changes-in-parsifal-the-bells-of-the-grail-hall

 

Merianna Neely Harrelson: Saints and Stepfamilies

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Friday morning:
“So, are you an evil stepmother or a kind stepmother?”

Sunday morning:
“After prayerful deliberation, we, of Emmanuel Baptist Fellowship, in Lexington, SC have called Marianna Neely Harrelson as Pastor. Merianna began her pastorate with us on June 1, 2014. She is the third person and first female called to serve our community of faith as Pastor.”

I’ve officially been a wife for 9 months and each time my husband looks at me and tells me that he believes in me and introduces me as his wife and shares his life with me, I feel extraordinary that I’ve been invited and trusted to share a call with him.

I’ve officially been a stepmother for 9 months and each time our 6 year old or 4 year old looks at me and calls me Mama 2 or Merianna and shares a little bit of their lives with me, I feel extraordinary that I’ve been invited to share these important formative years with them.

I’ve officially been a pastor for 16 days and each time one of my congregants looks at me and calls me Pastor and shares a little bit of their joy or grief, I feel extraordinary that they affirm the calling God’s placed on my life.

Pastor, wife, stepmother: there is nothing ordinary about this new life I am stepping into. I know that as I preach during this ordinary time, there will be some aspect of the extraordinary woven into each sermon because of where I am right now. And I’m glad that this first ordinary time of my preaching life is filled with so much extraordinary.

It’s easy to fall into a routine of the daily responsibilities of being a pastor, wife, and mother and think this is just another ordinary day. Right now I’m having trouble believing there are ordinary days. Too often ordinary conversations with other pastors, stepmothers and wives have turned so wholly divine that I’ve been literally speechless.

How is it possible that there is someone who is willing to share their own fears about being a stepmother so openly to me, so that I won’t feel so alone?

Why have there been two groups of women who have lovingly offered to include me in their mentor groups, so that I have a sounding board and safe haven?

Because we do not live in an ordinary world. We live in an extraordinary world full of spirit-filled people who believe that Pentecost is not a once a year occurrence, but rather ignites a flame that carries us into a time that may seem ordinary, but is fire-filled.

Once we start believing we are ordinary, we stop believing that God is extraordinary.

As I looked at Mary Hudson and Laura Cooper sitting on the first row on Sunday and watching me, their Mama 2, as I was installed, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe they will be able to see a God who is extraordinary, too, because of the women who are living into their calls and the spirit-filled people who are transforming the world.

May we live as passionate, spirit-filled lives during these ordinary times so the world may see that there is something extraordinary in every day.

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Merianna Neely Harrelson is the Pastor of Emmanuel Baptist Fellowship in Lexington, SC. As the other part of her bi-vocational position, she works as the Editor-in-Chief of Harrelson Press Publishing. She and her husband and daughters live in Columbia, SC with their two dogs Willie and Waylon.

Bailey Edwards Nelson: Gold Dust Woman, an Ordinary Saint

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[Moderator’s Note: This summer, during “Ordinary Time” in the church calendar, our writers are sharing about the “Ordinary Saints” God has used to speak to and shape them.]

“Rock on, gold dust woman…” And then she started to spin. The metallic glint of her shawl catching the spot light, seemingly sending that gold dust spiraling out onto her audience and into the universe. I was hooked.

Stevie Nicks, an ordinary saint, at least for me. Prophet of feminine power and beauty; preacher of rock n’ roll and mysticism; and pastor to spirits freed from the constraints of expectation, limitation and fear.

As we enter “ordinary time” in the liturgical calendar, we may pause and consider those people, places or experiences that have crept into the ordinary moments of our lives and made way for the extraordinary.

I have never met this legend of rock, but to listen to her raspy whispers or see her spin in great abandon is to know her. For years she has shared my living space. Riding in the car with me, a teenager with a newly minted driver’s license, as “Stand Back” threatened to blow out the speakers out of my old Mitsubishi Eclipse. Standing on stage with me, a gutsy girl out for karaoke night, as “Gold Dust Woman” growled in the microphone. Sitting in the dark with me, a heart-broken chaplain resident weary of death, as “Landslide” mixed with the flow of tears. Waiting with me, a called preacher woman, as “Rhiannon” gave wings to one ready to take flight.

A singer and musician myself, her songs have always been something I could actually get my voice around. They were filled with notes that seemed tailored to my low register and celebrated that bit of growl that loved to appear in a moment of passion. It didn’t take me long, however, to realize that what I felt for her music was more than an appreciation for the presence of rockin’ alto repertoire. She, and her music, was gifting me something much more valuable.

Stevie was allowing me the space to learn things about myself that other people and parts of my life would have preferred remain hidden. Her music was encouraging me to value difference–in myself and others. She was pushing me to entertain my spiritual side, hunkering down in the still places of my soul.

Stevie was teaching me that a low and loud voice on a woman was a beautiful thing, and that it just might come in handy when speaking truth. Her presence was urging me to try being soft, as well as strong, as each are equally feminine. She was showing me what it looks like to break promises and hearts, and how life and music go on.

But most of all, this ageless, shimmering songstress was teaching me to dance. She was inviting me to lean into the moments that call for passionate, wild twirling, no matter how strange it may seem. Showing me that these are the moments- where the music builds and your voice is haunting and your body is spinning- that produce the best songs. They tell a story with an authenticity and vulnerability that musicians dream of and ministers pray for.

You are a beautiful, strong, mysterious, flawed and fearless creation, she seemed to say. Come and fly, come and dance, sing your story and see what can happen. Yes, Stevie Nicks, sings me to life.

“All your life you’ve never seen a woman, taken by the sky…”           
-“Rhiannon” Stevie Nicks

 

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Bailey on the way to see her ordinary saint, Stevie Nicks, live on stage.

Rev. Bailey Edwards Nelson has served on the pastoral staff of congregations throughout the southeast, most recently as Senior Pastor of congregation in North Carolina. She is a graduate of McAfee School of Theology and Furman University. Bailey holds a deep love for preaching and the creative arts.

Alicia Davis Porterfield: Kitchen Table Pentecost

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“In our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deed of power.” –Acts 2:11
kitchentablepentecost

The kitchen is the heart of our home.

Not in the HGTV sparkling stainless steel, open concept, granite countertop kind of way. More in the stove from the ’70’s, cups all over the counter (because every time a boy needs a drink of water he also needs a new cup, saith nobody ever!), jelly on the floor kind of way.

At our kitchen table, three boys, ages 8, 10 and 12, discuss their days, the current sport of the season and entertain each other with displays of certain bodily functions. Belatedly, they tack on a mumbled “excuse me” when given the parental stink eye.

Yep, raising them up in the way they should go. That’s us.

The recent table talk is all about the NBA post season, which seems to last a legion of weeks, by the way. As some know, I am not a sports fanatic. And my only sport of choice is baseball, having grown up with the Atlanta Braves back when they made losing an art form and kids all over the metro area got free tickets for good grades.

But I never learned to speak basketball.

Usually, the boys’ chatter washes over me at the table. I interject only to add, “Please chew with your mouth closed,” and “is your napkin on your lap?” and other such vital contributions.

Our middle child sometimes tries to include me.
“Mom, who do you like best: Kevin Love or Chris Paul?”
“Uhhhh . . who’s Kevin Love?”
“Mom!! Only my favorite player (this week, I add silently)! He’s on
the Taco Bell commercial. Chris Paul is the State Farm guy with the fake twin,
Cliff Paul.”
“Oh, right. Chris Paul. He seems like a good sport and his little boy is just
precious.”

But mostly, waves of baller-speak wash over me. I’m tuned out. Thinking about the Weight Watcher points in this meal and the list of chores between me and bedtime.

Pentecost is this Sunday, when the Holy Spirit swooshed down (get the Nike reference?!) and Jesus’ followers suddenly proclaimed the good news of Christ in languages they’d never before uttered. Passover travelers from all over the Mideast stood in Jerusalem’s streets hearing God’s good news in Christ in their own languages for the first time.

All they had to do was listen. The Spirit was speaking.

And so it is at our kitchen table. Baller-speak winds around me, telling me something important about each child and his perspective, his hopes, his burgeoning faith. With the language of courts and rosters and predictions, each one shares a subtle dialect, unique to who God is shaping him to be.

Baller-speak is not my native tongue. I may never learn to speak it well.

But if I open myself to the movement of the Spirit, I may just hear “God’s deeds of power” right there at our battered kitchen table. All I have to do is listen. Amen.

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Rev. Alicia Davis Porterfield is fluent in Mom-speak thanks to the three boys she raises with her husband, Eric. Her passion is empowering others to deeply engage with what God is doing in their lives. Through life coaching, writing and moderating the Ministry and Motherhood blog, she is grateful to be living out her call. Alicia edited a collection of essays A Divine Duet: Ministry and Motherhood (www.helwys.com) and prays to broaden that conversation through the blog. Join us by contacting Alicia: aporterfield@ec.rr.com.

Lynn Brinkley: Journey to a DMin

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“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)

For the past 3 years, I have spent two weeks in the month of June with 16 men.

I enrolled in Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary to pursue my Doctor of Ministry Degree. I was the only female in “The Preacher and the Message” cohort. The majority of my classmates were pastors who came from all across the United States, Canada, and Ethiopia.

Although my fellow classmates were always kind towards me, I learned “private conversations” occurred in my absence about women in ministry. As you might imagine, some of my fellow cohorts felt I shouldn’t be there.

On Saturday, May 10, 2013, I graduated from Gordon-Conwell with my Doctor of Ministry Degree. As we lined-up for the processional, I looked around and noticed that only 7 (out of 17) from my cohort had finished this race.

LynnBrinkley-Superwoman

Guess who was missing? The ones who said that I shouldn’t be here.

My journey to completing my DMin was not easy, especially as a single parent. First of all, this journey required sacrifice.

Financially it was a burden. As the only female in the cohort, I had to cover two weeks of hotel expenses alone. The guys shared rooms, which cut their hotel costs.
I also had to work full time, take on a part-time job, and function as a single parent.

I felt I had failed terribly during my MDiv studies being a good parent to my daughter, Taylor. I was not going to make that mistake again. No matter how long my work day, or how late I needed to stay up to complete DMin work, Taylor’s extra-curricular activities at school came first.

Lynn Brinkley and Taylor DMIN

This journey also required support. I know without a doubt I did not complete this journey alone.

My mother was instrumental in providing care for Taylor, so I could go away for school, study, and get the job done!
My colleagues at Campbell University Divinity School provided the academic support I needed to complete my thesis-project.
Baptist Women in Ministry, NC provided financial support through a DMin grant I received to conduct my research.
Most of all, I had a host of good friends, students, and family members who prayed for me and kept me encouraged.

Most importantly, completing this theological journey required the Savior.

Time and time again I had to tell myself, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” This theological journey was not easy.

There was always added pressure to prove myself and make others see God did call me, and I did belong here! I spent a lot of time praying for strength to complete the journey, praying for guidance on how to be a good mother, and praying for my brothers in the cohort.

I prayed God would touch their hearts and use me as a vessel to change their views towards women in ministry. Although some in my cohort continue to struggle with women in ministry, others have shared with me (privately, of course) that they are beginning to see things differently.

For this I say, to God be the Glory!

Lynn Brinkley formal

Reverend Doctor Lynn Brinkley is mother to Taylor and Director of Student Services at Campbell University Divinity School, where women’s gifts and calling are celebrated. An experienced preacher, Dr. Brinkley utilized her DMin studies to create a manual for preaching etiquette for guest preachers and host churches.

Anna Kate Shurley: Serving a Congregation of Two

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“So . . . what do you . . . do?”

I have been asked this question a lot lately, and with good reason. My family and I recently moved to south Mississippi, where my husband was called to be the pastor of a Presbyterian church. Only a few people know me, but thanks to an article about us that ran in our local paper during Easter weekend, many people know a bit about me.

They know that in addition to being the mother of two small children, I am an ordained Baptist minister and a recently-minted Ph.D. Most folks who mention my credentials find them interesting and want to know how I am putting them to use.

More often than not, though, when people ask me what I do, I want to say something like, “Well, today, I scraped scrambled egg off of a high chair, changed a bunch of diapers, did four loads of laundry, put supper in the crock pot, got the oil changed in our minivan, paid bills, arbitrated a couple of sibling disputes, and made my third trip of the week to Wal-Mart (and it’s only Tuesday).”

Thankfully, a still, small voice always compels me to offer a different answer: “I currently work at home, where I serve a congregation of two.”

I serve a congregation of two. I nurture two little lives, and try every day to do so in ways that reflect God’s love. It is quite a privilege, yet it is, by far, the most challenging ministry I have ever had. While much of this challenge comes from my tiny parishioners acting their ages in every possible way, the biggest part of it lies in what I often perceive as a great disparity between my credentials and the current shape of my life and work.

I don’t need a Ph.D. to read a book to my son. I don’t need to be ordained to help my daughter finger paint. Did Sallie Mae really need to give me all those loans for graduate school so that I could host play groups once I was finished? Am I living a life right now that is faithful to the God who, once upon a time, called me to ordained ministry?

The same still, small voice that enables me to answer other people’s questions about my work also answers my own: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord” (Isaiah 55:8, NRSV). Indeed.

Far too often, my thoughts tell me that I have a resume to build with the education and training that I have. My thoughts tell me I should be teaching, writing, publishing, and serving as a chaplain on the side. My thoughts tell me that I would be much better at those tasks of ministry than I am at caring for my children each day.

These are my thoughts.

Left alone with them, I forget that it wasn’t until I began my doctoral program that I met and married my husband and had our children. I forget the ministry that my infant daughter and I did together as I pushed her in her stroller down the halls of the facility where I served as chaplain. I forget that motherhood and ministry are beautifully intertwined throughout each and every day of my life.

And I forget that God has fashioned it this way. It is God who shapes my vocation as a disciple of Jesus Christ. It is God who has given me our precious children and who has included, as part of my vocation, the calling to nurture and love these little lives as only I can.

It is God who sustains me and brings me joy as I live out my current calling as the Rev. Dr. Mama. And it is because of God that it all makes sense. Thanks be to God—for all of it.
 
Shurley

Anna Kate Shurley is an ordained Baptist minister. Prior to beginning her current ministry as a stay-at-home mom, Anna Kate worked in campus ministry, youth ministry, hospital chaplaincy, and, most recently, in ministry with people with developmental disabilities. A native of Radford, Virginia, she holds degrees from the College of William and Mary, Duke University Divinity School, and Princeton Theological Seminary. She lives in Gulfport, Mississippi, with her husband, Will (a Presbyterian pastor), and their children, Virginia

Prophetic Moms: It all started when I opened up the newspaper . . .

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Like the prophets of old, Jesus spoke the truth into the lives of the people of God, whether that truth was welcomed or not. The followers of Jesus spoke the truth of the good news wherever they went, whether it was welcomed or not. Today, God still calls us to be prophetic, speaking truth whether it is welcomed or not. 

Sometimes God’s truth reaches up and smacks us in the face or sneaks up and kicks us in the behind. Other times, it whispers in our ear or blows like a fresh wind into our lives. But once it comes, we ignore it at our peril. Think Jonah. 

In this week after Mother’s Day, that florist and card-maker’s dream, the truth spread out before me at the breakfast table and made swallowing my cereal a challenge.  Most days, after getting all three boys up, fed, brushed and off to school, I sit at the kitchen table, eat my breakfast and read the newspaper. As part of this routine, I’ve been developing the discipline of “praying the newspaper.” I take the news of the day and lift it up to God as I read, often whispering a “Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy.”

Yesterday I sat staring at the photo of the Nigerian schoolgirls abducted by Boko Haram, an extreme Islamic militant group. The girls were covered in hijab, only their faces visible as they sat reportedly praying in Arabic. Boko Haram’s leader claimed that the girls had converted to Islam, though it is unclear whether the coerced conversions will protect them from being trafficked. 

Also in that edition of the newspaper was a report on sex trafficking in our area (Southeastern North Carolina). The statistics felt like blows. The average age for girls “entering prostitution” was 12 to 14; for boys, it was 11 to 13. Approximately 75% of women in prostitution were once wards of the state. 80-90% of sex trafficking victims are also victims of abuse. (Wilmington StarNews. “Sex Trade Struggle.” May 13, 2014. p. 1A; http://www.starnewsonline.com). 

As a mother and as a minister, these articles reach up and grab me with the truth that girls and women still face grave injustice in our world. Boko Haram militants are cut from the same cloth as traffickers here in our country: neither value the lives of the girls (and boys) and women who, like them, are made in the image of God. These girls and women are viewed as “less than,” disposable, controllable. 

Jesus says otherwise. Just as the prophets railed against injustice against the weak, Jesus made room for the children, welcoming them in as the precious gifts they are. Jesus also welcomed Mary to learn at his feet, right there in the space that had been reserved only for men for centuries. (Mk. 10:13-16; Lk 10:38-42). Girls and women, welcomed and loved by Jesus. 

As a minister, I am much more comfortable being pastoral than prophetic. I’m much more at home with Ruth than Amos. But sometimes the truth of God grabs us, even at the breakfast table, and refuses to be ignored.

(Break for brief whine-fest): I want to believe we’ve come so far in our thinking about girls and women; I want to believe that the inroads already made are enough; I want to believe that God is handling this by using others better positioned than I, so I can just sit back in my comfortable breakfast-table bubble and go back to my life before I read these articles and God grabbed me. I give to World Vision and Heifer International, for Mary’s sake! 

But then, with the whining over, I start wondering how I can work against injustice against girls and women. Then I find myself wondering what it would look like for mothers to join together and say “No!” to this injustice that reveals what much of our world really believes about girls and women. I find myself wondering what a group of prophetic Moms might be able to do in our world, by the grace of God. Our girls and our sisters need us to wake up to their plight–and they need us to speak up. In the family of God, these are our children and our sisters and they need us. Now.

Prophetic Moms: truth-telling love in action.  It could happen  . . . couldn’t it?

 

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Alicia Davis Porterfield manages and moderates the Ministry and Motherhood blog, writes, teaches and is trying to raise three justice-minded boys with her husband. She had the great blessing of editing A Divine Duet: Ministry and Motherhood (ww.helwys.com), a collection of essays on the joys, challenges, blessings and learnings of ministry and motherhood. 

 

  

 

Bring Back Our Girls: A Mother’s Prayer

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In our newspaper today, the local election news announced itself in big, bold print on the front page above the fold. And the stolen girls of Nigeria were trapped inside a tiny four inch tall column on the inner pages. Local news is, of course, important to local places. And yet . . . AND YET . . . I fear that the story of these precious, stolen girls will continue to be relegated to the back burners of our 24-hour news cycle in favor of infotainment “news” and political bickering–until the girls disappear altogether. 

Evil depends on our ability to ignore and minimize it. 

As I sat despairing at our breakfast table over our modern attention spans and self-absorption, the only thing (and likely the best thing) I could do was pray, with Psalm-like honesty.

Holy Lord,

We pray today for the over two hundred girls who have been abducted in Nigeria and for our world to wake up to their plight and take action. They have been taken by people who refuse to see their value, who deny that these girls are made in your image to be loved, cherished and educated. Vulnerable and young, these girls depend on the justice and compassion of others to do the right thing. And we are moving slowly . . . while they suffer in fear, likely wondering if they have been abandoned, forgotten.

Your people often wondered the same thing, as recorded so beautifully and painfully in the Psalms. When famine or illness came, when war arrived on their doorstep, when they were defeated, when the wickedness seemed to be winning, the Israelites cried out in their struggle, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Ps. 22:1). Centuries of experience had taught them well that if help was to come, it would come from the Lord. And the Lord had not failed them yet. 

Please help these girls, your children and our children. Protect, comfort and encourage them as they are held captive and stir our leaders to wise and effective action. Awake our hearts to the truth that these girls are dependent on us to speak for them, to act with them and on their behalf, just as our own beloved children do when injustice strikes. Let every mother–and every father–rise up to claim these children as our own and protect them with the fierceness you have woven into the parental heart. Keep us from the distraction of daily busyness that would blind us to this injustice and silence our voices and our prayers. 

When we pray for these precious girls, help us to see the faces of the children in our lives, whom you have placed in our hearts, to love, protect and nurture. With the trust of the Psalms and the light of the resurrection, we pray that your will be done on earth as it is in heaven: in Nigeria, in our hometowns, this day and always. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen. 

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Alicia Davis Porterfield is a writer, life coach and minister serving in Wilmington, NC. One half of a clergy couple and the mother of three young boys, she cherishes her six beautiful, lively and gifted nieces more than she can say. Recently, Alicia had the privilege of editing the collection A Divine Duet: Ministry and Motherhood available at http://www.helwys.com. 

Bailey Edwards Nelson: Giving Voice to God

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While discussing Jesus and his “mommy,” Aidan paused and asked me: “Did she have a voice like yours? Did she sound like you?”

I sat stunned. All I could say was, “I don’t know.”

I have never considered what’s Mary’s voice might have sounded like. I certainly never thought that her voice could have sounded like my own. Was she an alto like me, with a lower range than most women? Did she project and speak with a dramatic bend like me? Did she have the slightest hint of a southern twang like me? I suspect not. Then again, what if?

At four years old, my son has theological insight many adults long for. Then again, most children do. Their questions catch us off guard, leaving even us “revs” wondering if we can live up to the challenge of providing an answer.

His face was soft and his voice full of curiosity–even hope–when he dared to wonder if his mommy could have been like Jesus’ mommy. He was searching for a way to understand her, to identify and connect with her. If her voice was like mine then suddenly the biblical narrative comes alive. He can hear her singing soft lullabies when Jesus could not sleep or shout with pride when he learned something new. Perhaps he can even hear the strength in her voice when she corrected Jesus when he stepped out of line.

If she had a voice like mine, then he knows her. And if he knows her, he knows her son, because he knows himself.

No, my son is not Jesus, and on many a day, not even Jesus-like. But suddenly he knows a Jesus who understands him, a Jesus who listened for the sound of his mother. And that leads to more questions. Questions about this Jesus: who he was and how he lived–and the God that sent him. Where do the answers to these questions lie? For my son, they lie with me.

Mary may not have been a loud-and-low Southern gal, but she did have a voice. The voice of a mother, a woman, heralding the life and love of a son the world would struggle to understand. She sang, cheered, cried, laughed, screamed and whispered in ways that only the one who birthed God into the world could.

My son is looking for me to do the same. He is looking for me to sing, cheer, cry, laugh, scream and whisper God to life for him. He hears my voice and waits for God to be birthed into his world. Some days there are more screams than whispers, more tears than laughs, but still he listens.

Did Jesus’s mommy have a voice like mine? Yes, she did. A voice like mine and a voice like yours. Thank God for sons (and daughters) whose questions lead us back to our original and most sacred calling: giving voice to a faith, a hope, a love–a God–that waits to be heard.

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Rev. Bailey Edwards Nelson has served on the pastoral staff of congregations throughout the southeast, most recently as Senior Pastor of a congregation in North Carolina. She is a graduate of McAfee School of Theology and Furman University. Bailey holds a deep love for preaching and the creative arts.