Preaching Outside the Box

Things I Used To Do Again

Walking down the stairs; like a choir member processing into a chancel, wearing an old bathrobe, a bible in one hand and a broom—meant to be a cross—in the other; gliding across the cement floor, slippery from being painted a dark shade of green, I made my way up onto the box. In the far corner of the basement was a wooden box with a hinged top meant to hide pipes and meters coming into the house. It was the perfect pulpit for preaching when I played church as a kid. Sometimes we played with Barbies or Legos. Sometimes we played school. Sometimes court (think Judge Wapner and his bailiff Rusty). And sometimes, especially when it was my turn to pick, we played church. There in that damp basement, filled with cobwebs and spiders, I gave my first sermon on top of a box to an audience made of people, dogs, dolls, and stuffed animals.

I was always drawn to church, to preachers and priests. And nuns. My grandmother had a sister and a close cousin that were nuns. Whenever they came to visit I wanted to be near them. To hear stories about their lives and faith and callings, and tell them about mine, and find the place where our stories ran together. Certainly as family, but even just as humans, our stories must have something connecting them together.

I was intrigued by pulpits and sermons. There was something about them that attracted me like a magnet. An energy pulling me to not only what they said, but also how they said it. I made note of differing styles, rhythms, cadences, movements, hand gestures, voice intonation, use of imagery, length, and the point of it all. There were times that a sleepy delivery brought a message I couldn’t get out of my head. And there were dynamic deliveries that left me questioning what in the world I just heard.  As a kid, I don’t remember wanting to be a preacher. I do recall imagining myself in front of crowds, big and small, telling stories and reading poems. Bringing people together. And wanting both the heart of my words and the way I presented them to be meaningful and transformational.

The first time I stepped into a pulpit to preach on a Sunday was in 2009. I had recently completed courses to become a certified “lay speaker” and was asked to put my learning to good use by giving a sermon. My lay speaking teacher is an incredible person, who also loves words and understands that what we share is enhanced by how we share it. She modeled creativity and inspired authenticity in ways that continue to shape my work.

That Sunday was unusually and extremely cold for October in Michigan. The sanctuary of the 200+ year old church was an ice box. The decision was made to hold the worship service on the second floor in a smaller and warmer gathering space. If I’m honest, I was disappointed. I had so looked forward to standing in the high pulpit—a holy box—that once held voices like that of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Rev. Dr. Henry Hitt Crane.

I look back now to standing then in front of a small make shift wooden podium outside of the sanctuary and smile. Reminded that I was never one to preach inside the box. Starting with those sermons I preached on top of a basement box as a kid.

My calling is not to be ordained and preach regularly, although I did expend great energy and resources toward that process. 

***And I feel moved to share that while ultimately ordination was not my path, I was fully engaged and faithfully committed to that pursuit. My walking away to embrace myself and a deeper calling does not absolve the church of the pain they inflicted in that process, and neither does their recent progress toward inclusion. Yes, like many others, I’ve found beautiful life outside the institutional church AND the harm I experienced within it is real. ***

I am called to share stories. To empower and enliven others to connect with their stories. To educate by lifting up stories and connecting our stories with the stories of God and Creation. And preaching is one way I live this call and tell stories. I do love preaching. And find great joy in the preparing, planning, and the actual moment of offering a message.

There have been many times when I’ve thought I’d never preach again, either because I feared shame and grief had silenced my voice or because I thought no church would ever invite me.  Like an unexpected message in a salty bathed bottle washing to shore, one surprise I’ve received is the gift of recognizing I do not fit in boxes. Slowly and carefully this gift unrolled like a little piece of brown paper sprinkled with sand and shells, the words fading from a baptism of ocean waves.

I do not fit or belong in a box. Not my life, my sexuality, my gender, my words, my story, my faith, or my calling. And certainly not my preaching.

And now even when I am in a church standing in a pulpit, or behind a podium, or in a garden, I am not in a box. As a queer, un-ordained, denominationally fluid, theologically non-conforming, creative, poet, and preacher I am living a life and a calling outside the box. And sometimes on top of it. Sharing poems and prayers from damp basements and other unique spaces to eclectic crowds.

This is one of the things I used to do again; preaching outside the box. And I’ll be doing this more often. And this Sunday, I’ll be doing this at First United Methodist Church of Kalamazoo. Visit 10Camels.com for all the details and for other upcoming events.

As I continue diving into my Becoming Board (aka: bucket list), I am reminded almost daily that the seeds of who I am becoming were planted as a child, and the tears from my journey of unraveling watered them and nourished me to life.

When you consider who you are today, what connections do you find to who you were long before life, obligations, and expectations tried to put you in a box?

May these words invite and inspire you step outside, even for a moment. Just give it a try. I’m here listening if you want to share how it goes.

With Water and Wonder,
Rebecca & 10 Camels