I was one of seven “older” women helping out with the Young Women Preacher’s conference last week. I have to admit that it is a new title for me: older. Although all seven of us are seeing 39 in our rear-view mirrors, most of us, myself included, are still considered young in our judicatories. I am. I am one of the youngest people in my presbytery.
And there is something flattering in that—it’s nice, sometimes, to be considered young despite the facts. It’s nice, in this youth obsessed culture, to be mistaken for 5 years, 10 years younger than my driver’s license states.
On the other hand, it’s a bit appalling. I should not be young for my presbytery. Because if I’m young, that means that there are many voices that are unheard. (The practical side of me also thinks that if I’m young, then who is going to come visit me in the nursing home? Am I obliged to stay extra healthy because there aren’t enough young pastors to lead my senior citizen Bible study/nap? )
At one of the breaks, I asked Daphne Burt how she was doing. She gushed, “great. This is wonderful, amazing…they’re all so amazing.” We continued in our co-presidency of the young clergy women fan club for a while, and I can’t remember who said it—Daphne or me—but one of us gave it words, “I’m jealous.” Whoever said it, the other agreed. Understand me, I’m not really jealous of your youth. Yeah, there are minutes where I wish I was or looked younger, but really that’s more about society’s perception of age than it is about wanting to re-live earlier days. Emily Salier’s “every lesson learned a line upon her beautiful face,” is my mantra.
But I’m jealous. And so is Daphne. It’s not the youth. It’s not the future ahead of you---truth be told, none of us knows what that future will be. Nope. “They have each other.” Someone said it, and that’s the thing.
You have each other.
I spent my twenties and my early thirties as the only young woman, actually the only young person in my region and my presbytery. I was in rural areas, so there’s some of it, but also there’s just plain demographics: there weren’t that many of us. And for whatever reason, I just wanted so desperately to fit in that I began to mold myself those around me. I began dressing like the 6 older women ministers in my presbytery (median age: 60), and talking like the 7 men in my local ministerium (median age: Moses’ older brother).
When I preached for the local thanksgiving service, I had pastors question me: “who said that?” they asked about my exegesis. I was trained not to use commentaries at all. I preached what I knew, based on my study of the text. And that’s not a young thing or an old thing, it’s just the method that my preaching professor advocated. But it freaked me out. I bought my first commentary. I began to think that my exegesis didn’t “count”unless I had two dead white guys and a bona-fide feminist scholar to sign my permission slip. I was 35 before I realized that I didn’t need all that, and what’s more: I didn’t want it. And this little anecdote isn’t about what’s the right way to prepare to preach. There is no one right way. Roll around in the mud with the text if you want, or dig a pipeline to it through the works of the great scholars. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know what your voice is, and don’t let someone edit it without your consent.
I didn’t have other young women ministers to talk to, and I didn’t work very hard to find them. In fact, I felt stupid for wanting that company.
But you don’t.
You laughed loud and long. You named truths that I would never have named. You were unapologetic in your love of toe-nail polish, poetry, exegetical books, scripture, the church, your families. You didn’t sort out your loves into worthy and unworthy. And you said, over and over and over again, how good and pleasant it was for sisters to dwell together.
You have each other and you are glad for it.
I heard 10 sermons this week. And they were beautiful and brave and lovely and quirky, and I thought I had found the best group in the conference. Funny thing is, Anna and Dean and Daphne and Shawnthea and Sally-Lodge, and Dahn also thought they had the cream of the crop. You were –are—amazing. And I know that you will bring me Diet Coke and scripture and the word of God in the nursing home one day, and that’s a good thing (don’t forget the Diet Coke, though.)
I got to sing with alumnae from my a capella group for the conference. That was good, as always. We sang a Sweet Honey in the Rock song, “Ella’s song.” Three of us volunteered to sing solos, and they were allocated randomly. I took verses one and four. I had actually hoped for verse 6: “I am a woman who speaks in a voice, and I must be heard, at times I can be quite difficult, I’ll bow to no man’s word.”I didn’t get that one, though. Dahn did, appropriately. Instead I got a different verse, because, you know, the holy spirit is still in charge.
“The older I get, the better I know that the secret to my going on,
Is when the reins are in the hands of the young who dare to ride against the storm.”
Uh-huh.
Thanks for a great week. Thanks for letting me hang out. And thank you, thank you, thank you for taking the reins.
Susan
The Rev. Susan Olson is a Presbyterian minister, Yale University employee, and the convener of The Young Clergy Women Project.
._ Interesting idea. Could you elaborate a little bit more?
Posted by: Gerald | January 30, 2012 at 11:52 PM