I suppose I’d want to be a lap dog,
if I was remade as something else.
Because being alpha seems…well—
The first woman pastor I sought out
wore a robe with a soft gloss to it.
A stole draped over her shoulders
past her hips, clapping her knees
—was it green? Before her church,
she opened her arms, posture wide,
palms up, feet shoulders’ width
apart, head tilting east just a tad.
She imparted a blessing of peace
to everyone in her very room.
It took some Sundays, but I received
my face-to-face encounter. Sitting in
a bishop’s—here a pastor’s—office
seemed an old-hat ritual to me. Yet
sitting across from her,
a desk between us,
alone in her office? That seemed…well—
she was a she. Never before in my life had I
confided in a she-priest. Doleful, I shed my Mormon
armor, placing bare spirit feet on her ground. Then she spoke:
“Jake, thank you for telling me about your faith crisis. It’s a deep pain we feel when we doubt our religion—especially a religion our parents gifted us. And I want you to know whatever you choose—whether it’s to leave the LDS Church and join ours, or stay in the LDS Church, or go somewhere completely different—just know that whatever you choose, you are welcome here.”
She was lovely.
Forgive me. I was in my 20s back then, and I still am at heart. What I remember most vividly is how beautiful this pastor was. Wavy brown hair framing her neck and descending just past her shoulders. She was fit in a way that suggested a commitment to health without a gym fetish. Her voice carried as clarion across that desk as it had in the sanctuary: intimate yet confident, pitched up into mezzo yet free of needless tension.
Please believe me when I say I did not sit their lusting in my heart. Instead, I listened as this pastor counseled me about religious pain. There was something in her voice to which I felt inclined to hearken.
“I wasn’t always a pastor. I entered the seminary not long after my first husband’s death. He had struggled with depression for years. He tried incredibly hard to overcome it. I tried to help him. Our extended family and his friends tried to help.
When I found him on our property, there was no sense of surprise or shock. As I stood over his body, the first clear feeling I sensed was peace, which I had not expected to feel. The sorrow was there. But more deeply I felt myself being spared a pain which is ultimately futile: the urge to blame him, or myself, or anyone else for his dying. You see, nobody ever needs to be put on a cross again.”
She said all of this calmly with a voice of wisdom.
She spoke as one having authority. Her trump,
with a steady mellow tone, sounded for me.
My bosom did something better than burn.
I felt it begin to cool. I began to rest.
She had introduced me to grace.
In moments of acute pain,
if I could, I would curl up on
the lap of our mother God,
and insist she forgive me
—doleful creature—
for gnawing her sandals,
for galloping muddy across
her couch, stalking foolhardy
as one seeking to master
her love. I would curl up in
her arms and be comforted,
fed and forgiven, and taught
how to rest from my raging
against the rising moon.
Poet’s Notes:
The line “doleful creature” comes from the Bible (Isaiah 13, KJV) by way of The Book of Mormon (2 Nephi 23:21). The featured image is licensed from iStockphoto.
Wheat & Tares 
Awww….
If only life could be so comforting…
If only…
Lovely!
Thanks for sharing this Jake!
Wonderful. I felt that peace as I read this. Thank you.
Not sure what to say, but this struck home in some ways.
The opening 3 line stanza could almost stand alone. As much as it might offend the “red pill” folks, I’m one of those guys who has never been very ambitious, never felt a need to be in charge or to lead. In a church that tries to insist that I must/should “preside” (aka lead — aka “be the alpha”) in my home, but I don’t really want to be the sole leader, I often wish I could simply say that I don’t want to be in charge by myself — that my wife is an equal partner not only in leadership but also in responsibility.
Follow that with the rest about your experience with a woman pastor that shows that women can be spiritual guides and counselors. Sometimes, the way we do women and motherhood and fatherhood and priesthood does not make sense to me.
Jake
Truly lovely way to reframe turbulent feelings. It resonated.
I’m filing this away, hoping to not forget, to refer to as needed.
I really like this, Jake. Thank you.
From personal experience, the pastor has to be that—pastoral—but not necessarily a woman. Although maybe it helps.
Speaking to both Christian’s and MrShorty’s comments, I feel sure this wasn’t the first time I’d interacted with female clergy. And certainly women in both my family and local ward growing up offered spiritual mentoring. However, to the best of my memory, this was the first time I formally sought and accepted counsel in a context similar to a personal priesthood interview. Interesting how a sense of formality plays a role, a sense of meeting with someone vested with official priestly authority. My experience teaches me that gender orientation, while significant and a rich source of perspective, is not itself a qualifying or disqualifying factor for serving as clergy.
Thanks to all of you for sharing your reactions.
This is my favourite of your poems on W&T.
I read it first yesterday, And found it incredibly moving. It’s been with me since.
A balm.
I listened to much of general conference this weekend – the first in several years. I wanted it to be a bridge to my TBM adult children. They say they need me and long for the guidance I have always offered. But, for them, it must come from a place of full participation in the church or it’s just too uncomfortable for them.
I didn’t expect to catch so many daggers. My beautiful adopted daughter, born out of wedlock, is not a bitter fruit. I am not weak or wandering. I am not in numb darkness. I didn’t leave because God let me down with my selfish expectations.
I drove for hours. Trying to catch my breath.
Then I read this poem and was flooded with peace. Thank you.