Sermon Audio: Many members. One Body.

Sermon Audio: The Live-or-Die Nature of Unity within the Body of Christ

1 Corinthians 12:12-31a

The question becomes—no, not becomes…the question IS…this very moment it IS—which will we further with this one precious life we have to live?

unrest, hatred, and division? 
orPeace, Love, and Unity?

There is no gray area here. The choice is up to us.

Hey, you—take the picture.

[Edited to note: While I feel confident that the folks seeing this post are primarily family and friends, the internet can be a scary place. Thus, the big purple dot over my kid's face in the picture below.]

I stumbled through the door that connects our garage to our laundry room after what felt like a day that would never end.

You’ve been there.

Tons on your TDL to accomplish in only 10ish hours' time, a meeting or two, and the emotionally vested conversations that leave you more tired than at peace about the topic of conversation.

Without slowing my stride, I tossed my pea-coat over the bouncer that is still taking up residence along one of our living room walls (many months after my son’s last bouncing session) and dropped my scarf on top of the small rocking chair that has been passed from child to child in my husband’s family for generations.

I could hear them just around the corner. I’d made it in time.

I found my son (and his dad) in his room--walking wobbly sporting a goofy grin and heavy eyes--winding down from what I can only imagine was the typical fun-filled guys’ night that occurs whenever I have to work late.

It was the time in our nightly routine where we read a book (or three) and while my husband is normally the reader and I am the rocker and calmer-downer, he said I should read and rock tonight. That our son had missed me. Gladly agreeing to his suggestion, I turned page after page while our son lifted and closed each flap in a Daniel Tiger cardboard book. 

In my peripheries, I could see my husband with his phone up in front of his face. 

While this might not seem that unusual for someone who’s just been relieved after a night of solo parenting, we don't use our phones during the nighttime routine. We want our son to know that all eyes are on him and that it is time to rest after what is usually a busy day for all of us in one way or another.

The book came to an end.

We read our prayer.

The big light went off. 

The night light came on.

I rocked the tiny wonder a little longer than usual.

Then I turned out the night light and left his room.

After we’d had a chance to catch up from the day over dinner, I asked my husband what he was doing while we were reading.

An Airdrop notification appeared on my phone alerting me I had the opportunity to accept six photos he wanted to share with me.

There we were.

My son and me.

Just us.

Candidly in these photos together.

Doing something ordinary.

Doing something we always do.

So, why did it mean so much to me that he’d taken them? 

Because I’m usually the one on the other side of the camera.

...said [almost] every mother ever.

Often moms so desperately want to capture every small and seemingly insignificant moment because we fear we’ll forget those very same moments as our children grow. And it sometimes feels as though no one is quite as dedicated to the same cause—particularly when it comes to making sure there are photos of us with our children.

It’s no one’s fault.

Maybe your spouse doesn’t take that many photos, period.

Maybe it just doesn’t occur to them that you’d want a picture of something as simple as reading a story together or feeding them a snack or rocking them to sleep.

Early on in motherhood, I decided I would not allow moments I wanted to capture of me and my son to pass. Which essentially equaled out to...

All. The. Selfies.

And while those are good and sweet at times (and I look back fondly on the ones we’ve taken), other times it can feel pretty silly or dumb when you try to no avail to capture a particular moment.

But not as silly and dumb—in my own experience—as asking your SO to take a picture of you with your kid.

I always think: 

He never asks for a picture to be taken.

He doesn’t obsess about it like I do.

So, I shouldn’t ask.

The selfies will do.

And the rest? Well, surely I’ll remember.

Except, I won’t.

I won’t remember how I felt the time that he was so feverish and no one else would do...when no one else could bring him peace but me.

I won’t remember that random Tuesday afternoon where I picked him up early from daycare just because it was a pretty day and I knew we’d have fun playing outside together.

I won’t remember the way he looked at me with delirious glee in his eyes and belly laughed so hard when I tickled him just before bath time.  

I won’t remember how he looked at me as though I might as well have been the only one besides him who was ever on the planet.

So, I beg of you (and I’m begging of me, too).

Tell them—your spouse, your partner, your co-parent, your whoever—to take the picture.

It might feel silly.

And strange.

And maybe even selfish.

But none of those are true.

You deserve to be in your child’s memories just as much as anyone else.

Your presence.

Your care.

Your time.

Your teaching.

Your comforting.

Your challenging.

Your love.

Just like the ones you so diligently try to capture of your children with others, your experiences with them are picture worthy, too, and need to be taken. So that when he or she is older—and you’re older—you’ll remember that your love for your child was and is a radiant and impactful and vital gift.

Mamas, don’t just be the one on the other side of the camera.

Tell them—for the sake of your children and your own sake as well—to take the picture. 

Every. Single. Time.

Thanks for reading, friends.

Deep Peace,

MK

Heart Matters

[Edited to note: The number of duplicates I have of this very same photo (still on my phone a year and a half later, mind you) is almost embarrassing.]

One of the greatest joys I experienced after giving birth to our son that no one adequately prepared me for was spending time with him “skin to skin.”

Sure, our birthing classes had taught us that the practice helps with bonding, nursing, etc. (I’m telling ya, I was skin to skin with that boy almost every time we were together for the four days of his life, and we were still terrible at nursing, haha!)

In all seriousness, there is something inexplicably significant and serene about that time spent together in the first hours and days of their existence on this side of life. Knowing that his ear on my chest somehow brought him comfort and peace. It was in those precious moments that I realized I was made for this. I’d always wanted to be a mom, but holding him as he snuggled as close as he could get alerted me just how fully I was called to love this tiny human.

Our skin to skin time continued for months after we left the hospital (It’s still crazy to me they let us leave in the first place. We were beyond under-qualified for such swift progression as parents.). As time went on, I began to think of it less as time spent “skin to skin” as much as time spent “heart to heart.”

My “whole heart” laid on top of my bodily heart, and before my eyes, both hearts grew and grew. My whole heart in size, and my bodily heart in its capacity to love.

I’ve often wondered since those early days—when we're rocking at night and he chooses to sit up with his ear to my chest—if my heart still makes a difference for him as his very being does for me.

I wonder if it still brings him comfort.

I wonder if it still affords him peace.

I wonder if it helps him feel less alone.

I wonder if he hears how my very bodily heart beats solely for him.

These ponderings have led me time and again to wonder how different life would be if adults listened to one another’s hearts in a similar way.

If we cared about the beating of another’s heart the way babies care about the rhythmic beats that make up their parents’ existence, how much more meaningful and connected and egalitarian might life be?

It’s a matter of heart.

A heart matter, to be exact.

Our hearts are our only hope to better ourselves and better creation.

Our hearts are the only fighting chance we have to enable change that leads to meaning, connection, and equality for our brothers and sisters, for all people.

My bodily heart tells me that it’s past time for me to live in such a way that my whole heart has the hope of of growing up in a world different from the one I read and hear about on a daily basis.

Not just for my whole heart. But for the whole heart of every parent represented by every demographic in the world.

It’s my responsibility.

Indeed, it is my privilege as a follower of Christ to be able to embody and promote love toward all beings as Christ is in the business of doing.

That means caring about all beings as though they are my very own “whole heart.”

It’s a matter of the heart.

A heart matter.

And it’s one that I’m praying my heart is open enough and bold enough to address head on any and every time it presents itself in 2019.

Won’t you join me? It’s so much less lonely when we’re not alone in doing what God has created and called and commissioned us all to do. I know my heart is better with yours. Maybe yours is better with mine, too.

Thanks for reading, friends.

Deep Peace,

MK 

Sermon Audio: Jesus Turns Water into Wine

Sermon Audio for 1-20-2019

John 2:1-11 (Jesus turns water into wine)

This first sign performed by Jesus in John's gospel points the disciples (and us!) to Jesus' true identity. As N.T. Wright puts it, the sign foreshadows a "heavenly reality." We are not only to receive this sign as assurance of who God is and what God is up to in our world. We are also called to do what is necessary to be signs of who God is and what God is up to in our world so that God's Kingdom may be more fully revealed and understood here and now.

Thanks for listening to this 13 minute sermon and, as always, for your support!

Deep Peace,
MK

Grieving to the Tune of Taylor Swift

On Sunday, I went to the funeral visitation for a forty year old woman.

She is the cousin of one of my parishioners. They lifted her as a prayer concern in worship the previous Sunday.

A week later I was standing in front of her casket with her widower, doing my best to comfort him though he may as well have been a stranger to me.

She had gone in for a routine scan with hopes of figuring out why she was continuously falling down.

The results showed that an aggressive cancer in its advanced stages had overtaken her body, and she had just days to live.

Unfortunately, this would not be an instance where the doctors misread the timeline. She passed within days of receiving the news.

Grief is a funny thing.

Not "funny, haha" obviously.

It's just so strange.

Everything from its existence, to its movement, to our experience of it...

The way that it matters not to grief how long it has been since we experienced loss because it will always find its way back to us--in the most random of times and most unlikely of places.

The way our grief pours over us when we sit with others in the midst of their own.

The way the grief of others seeps into places that we thought we had long ago sealed off from feeling. 

It's fascinating to me.

But I suppose those things are the price we pay for being connected to one another. They are the consequences of honoring the connectedness between us as human beings. 

--

As I drove home from a meeting later that evening, Taylor Swift's new(er) hit "Reputation" came on the radio. And, for whatever reason, that's when grief struck me.

Grief struck me so hard that tears poured out of my eyes and down my cheeks, staining them with blackness. I could feel the streaks being made by the perpetual mascara-clad tears hurrying down my face in every direction.

The forty year old woman's death had brought my grief bubbling--hot and fast-- to the surface.

I grieved the mortality of my parents and the realization that they will not be here forever.

I grieved that my son is growing older.

I grieved all that my body went through in pregnancy, delivery, and recovery after his birth.

I grieved the way my relationship with my husband is different now that we have a child.

I grieved that I feel as though I have lost the sense of who I am as an individual being.

I grieved losses of relationship our family has suffered in the past year.

I grieved the magnitude of exhaustion I felt deep in my bones.

I grieved the time that I feel is slipping too quickly from my grasp and that I might not be making the most of what I have left.

I had no idea how hardened and cut off my heart had been, nor that I had reverted back to an old way of being. Without my knowledge, and much like Queen Elsa, I had embodied the "Conceal, don't feel. Don't let them know." mentality on all things relating to my own pain, anguish, loss.

But, as the song goes, "Well, now they know."

Now you know.

Grief is a funny thing.

But it is also a thing meant to be experienced in full--whenever and wherever and however it meets us. It is a thing that is okay to admit. It is a thing that it is okay to talk about with people whom you feel safe sharing such sacred space.

The more we harden our hearts and close ourselves off to what we feel, the more we dishonor the divine connectedness between us and God as well as the divine connectedness between us and others.

Because, surely, if we cannot allow ourselves to feel our own hurt...there will be no hope for us empathizing with the suffering of others.

God created us in such a way that we belong to one another for so many brilliant reasons. 

One of the most significant of all those reasons is so that no one must sit alone in her suffering, her pain, her doubts, her fears, her grief.

Dear mamas (and whoever else is reading this), remember that you are worthy of grieving the things you need to grieve and that you were never intended to do it alone.

Know that you are loved.

Thanks for reading.

Deep Peace,
MK

Sermon Audio: Baptism of the Lord Sunday

Baptism of the Lord Sunday

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

"Claimed by God"

Thanks for listening, friends.

Deep Peace,
MK

Resilient as a Mother

[Edited to note: I sacrificed a shower while my kid was napping for this post. Let the record show that I am--if nothing else--determined (and sort of dirty).]

Well, crap. (Sounds like a great way to start out the ol' blog revamp, eh?)

I can't find the picture of the quote that was to springboard this inaugural post, so alas, paraphrasing will have to do:


"Working moms are expected to work as though they do not have children and parent their children as though they do not work."


I came across this quote shortly after returning to work from maternity leave in the fall of 2017, and it has continued to resonate with me on a spiritual level.

Fortunately, I did not feel the aforementioned impossible expectations thrust onto me by either of the two congregations I pastor. However, I did feel ample societal pressure to succeed at being a mom who works.

And not just succeed...but succeed publicly, where everyone could keep an eye on and approve of how well I was juggling the small, untamed circus that had become my reality.

A lot of that had to do with social media. 

You know how it goes.

A mom friend of yours continually posts pictures that indicate she is managing all the things--not just well, but   f    l    a    w    l    e    s    s    l    y, and you find yourself wondering what class you missed that sets one up for such perfection and ease?

In trying to gain the approval of others about my success as a working mother (part of this has to do with my personality, but that's a discussion for another post), I found myself feeling increasingly more deflated, depleted, isolated, and alone.

I attempted to carry out the expectations of others thinking that, in and of itself, would somehow garner my success, would somehow mark me worthy to continue doing the things I had to do, to continue doing the things I'd been called to do by God:
Be a pastor.
And be a mom.

I thought that would show them--whoever the heck "them" happened to be at any given moment--that I was resilient and had what it takes.

Earlier this week, I got a counter-cultural  lesson on what true resilience of working mothers looks like at a required retreat for the ordination process:

A mom of a FOUR MONTH OLD (If you don't have kids, you might not get what a big deal this is. Just know this woman rocks.) was there handling her colic-y, most precious babe like a champ. Miles from home, away from her spouse and everything that is familiar. Breastfeeding, bouncing, wearing, walking, changing clothes after poop explosions, the works. She didn't realize how incredible she was as she managed the roles of pastor and mother in those few days we were together, but I admired her resilience the entire time.

A friend of mine pumped day and night--while battling bronchitis and a sinus infection, to boot--in order to make sure her six month old would have enough to eat when they reunited at the end of the week. She probably didn't think about this as an act of resilience, but I certainly did.

Another dear friend of mine spoke to me about sitting on the other end of the phone from her four year old who was sobbing because "I miss mommy." She told me she was prepared to stay on the line all night if that's what it took to comfort her child. If that's not resilience--to do whatever we need to do to balance our vocational roles--I don't know what is.

I chased around a 1.5 year old toddler (with the help of my clergy husband) who was adamant about, well, being a toddler. He cared not that this retreat was designed for rest and rejuvenation. He cared about moving and exploring and clapping and raising his voice and dancing. And I had to learn very quickly to set aside others' expectations of us as a family and just allow my child to be, to care for and nurture him in the ways he needed, all while continuing to stand my ground as a pastor and hopeful candidate for ordination.

And those are only the stories and situations at our retreat that I know about. Several other clergywomen who juggle the vocation of motherhood through the act of resilience could be found in every session.

Often, we--as working mothers--don't think much about the strength and resilience we exhibit as we carry out our simultaneous callings. Nor are we want to give ourselves credit where credit is due as we manage all the things that are asked and required of us.

Perhaps this will be the year where working moms and all moms everywhere remember our sacred worth as creatures breathed into being by the God of All--made for love and community and solidarity and compassion--as we live into the various aspects of our vocation(s).

Perhaps this will be the year where working moms and all moms everywhere hold fast to the truth that God did not create us to live up to someone else's standards. Instead, may we remember that we are intended only to live evermore deeply into the abundant grace and abiding love of God. 

May we receive it. May we embody it. And may we share it generously. Always.

Thanks for reading, dear ones.

Deep Peace,
MK

Welcome to the Intersection of Pastor-hood & Motherhood

Hi there!

If this is your first time stepping foot into the rather straight forward, rather sassy, and often theological realm of my blog, allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Mary Kate, and I'm a United Methodist pastor in Middle Tennessee.

In 2016, I became a pastor.

In 2017, I became a mother.

And life has never quite been the same since those two worlds collided.

Therefore, I've recently revamped my blog as I prepare to venture into a new world of writing where I will explore the everyday-ness of the aforementioned collision. I will also be posting audio files of my sermons on a weekly basis.

Though I no longer frequent Facebook, I will post links to my blog on my personal page for each new post. You can also still contact me via Messenger if you'd like to discuss/commiserate about things that I've written or preached.

I look forward to beginning this new leg of the adventure soon, and I hope you'll come along for the ride. 

Blessings to you and yours!

Deep Peace,
MK