Sermons, Stories, and a $100 Bill
a question of worth
It was an unusually cold October Sunday the first time I preached. The sanctuary felt like a deep freezer causing the worship service to be moved to a smaller gathering space, which wasn’t exactly warm, but at least wasn’t frigid. The sweater, like the skirt I wore, was new. Bought the day before.
Trying on clothes in the department store dressing room, something on the floor caught my attention. At closer look, it was a $100 bill. Was this a joke? A trick? A “what would you do” moment staged for TV? It wasn’t mine. I wasn’t going to take it. I couldn’t just leave it. How would I find the person who presumably dropped it? Did they know they’d lost it? Would they struggle without it?
I let it sit there as I slipped in and out of possible new outfits. What do you wear for your first sermon? A skirt seemed better than a dress. Safer than khakis and new high-tops. I hated being seen and there was no way not to be seen when standing in front of a crowd speaking into a microphone.
That $100 bill stared at me as I wrestled with what to buy and what to do with that money. $100 would have more than covered my purchase. But could I live with myself sharing a message about serving others in new clothes bought with someone else’s money? Was I just being dramatic?
I picked up the $100 bill on my way out of the dressing room. There was no one around. I headed to the customer service desk. The cashier asked if I was making a purchase or a return. It took me a minute to respond.
I set the $100 bill on the counter and hesitantly said, “um, I found this…in the dressing room. Has anyone reported it missing?”
They chuckled. “No.” After an awkward silence asked, “What would you like me to do with this?”
“Maybe…hang onto it until someone claims it?” I suggested.
They laughed louder. “You can keep it or I can give it to the security guard.”
Maybe it was guilt, or an attempt at piety, or indecision. Whatever it was, I couldn’t keep it. I’ll never know who dropped it or if they got it back. After all these years, I’m again wondering if I should have left it there, or spent it, or put it in the offering plate on the Sunday I preached for the first time.
Despite the weather and changed location there was a big crowd that Sunday. Preaching in your home church can sometimes feel like Jesus returning unwelcome to his home town, but not that day. That day was absolutely affirming and assuring. The message was not only received it was really heard. My gifts were seen and celebrated.
After that first sermon, my voice was out there, and I was asked more and more to use it. The more I spoke, the more places I was invited. In those places, I learned that many invitations come with an expectation of inauthenticity. I picked up on what could and couldn’t be said. How far you could wander from the center and still be acceptable. How close you could get to the line without being exiled. I saw what happened to others who spoke too loudly or showed up too proudly.
I told myself I could do this dance without losing my soul.
I talked with mentors and guides about how to do this without tripping.
I tried.
I tried so hard.
Ultimately, being authentically me in a system that praised my ministry while denying my humanity proved impossible. When I left I feared my preaching days were done.
In that season, I was bound to a religious vocabulary. Calling equated ordination. Community required church. Faith was christian. Good news only came through preaching.
Today surrendering my credentials feels strangely similar to taking that $100 bill to the customer service desk. I didn’t know what to do with them, but I couldn’t keep them. They cost me too much.
It’s been a painful liberating journey realizing that I needed to let those papers go to claim who I am. To recognize my worth beyond them. My value that is not dependent on them. My preaching that does not command me to flash them like an enhanced driver’s license at the church steps.
I never preached every week, but every week I stepped into a pulpit, or behind a podium, or sat in a circle at a hospital bedside or near a graveside casket I gave my all. Or as much as one can give while denying who they authentically are.
These last few years, I have reclaimed my voice and now understand that my identity is not that of a preacher, but rather a storyteller. And that sometimes when I share stories on Sundays, a church will call them a sermon.
With my life no longer hidden in a closet and with all the dresses and skirts gone, there is room for my calling to move and breathe. There is space for all the shoes, especially high-tops, my feet can hold.
In my expanded vocabulary calling is universally human. Community is made not forced. Faith is curious not certain. Sermons reveal good news. Good news must include our stories.
This Sunday I am authentically stepping back into a pulpit to share a water-filled message about remembering and re-imagining inherited songs. It’s a companion to Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal. It’s a sermon. It’s part of the story of what happened after surrendering my credentials and beginning to compose a more curious faith.
If you’d like to read this story, order a copy of Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal here. If you want to hear this story in your congregation or community fill out the inquiry form on the 10CAMELS website. Click here to begin.
Gratefully & curiously yours, Rebecca
