Anointed

[Editors’ note: Molly Minnerath is a 2019 awardee of the Lucile Murray Durkin Scholarship for women and non-binary persons discerning priestly ordination. This is the first in a series of reflections from our 2019 awardees on how the scholarship impacted their journey over the academic year.]

This year my spiritual director introduced me to the poet Edwina Gateley. Over the past many months, I have become intimately connected with her work and she has quickly become one of my favorite poets. I have had her poem “The Anointing” stuck in my head all year.

“The Anointing” by Edwina Gateley

There were no crowds at my ordination
The church was cold and bare.
There was no bishop to bless and
consecrate,
No organ music filled the air.
No solemn procession went before me,
No cross nor incense smell,
There was no song nor incantation
And no pealing triumphant bell.

But I heard the children laughing
In the stench of the city slums.
And I heard the people sobbing
At the roaring of the guns.
And the stones cried out before me
As the sirens wailed and roared
And the blood of women and children
In the arid earth was poured.

There were no crowds at my ordination,
The church was cold and bare.
But the cries of people gathered
And the songs of birds filled the air,
The wind blew cold before me,
The mountains rose and split,
The earth it shuddered and trembled
And a flame eternal was lit.

There were no crowds at my ordination,
The church was cold and bare,
But the Spirit breathed oh, so gently
In the free and open air,
She slipped through the walls and the
barriers,
And from the stones and the earth She
proclaimed:
Oh, see! My blind, blind people,
See Woman – whom I
Have ordained.

I love this poem for so many reasons. It is raw, real, speaks to my heart and, during this current global pandemic, has taken on a new meaning for me. For the last two years I have been working at the Episcopal Cathedral in downtown Boston for the MANNA community, a community of and with folks living on the streets and in shelters in Boston. I am part of the “pastoral care team,” which means we all do a myriad of things: we foster community through welcoming people at the door, leading worship, having pastoral care conversations, meeting immediate needs with food, coffee, and clothing, and connecting folks to social services. I love our community deeply – my work with MANNA has been the most important of my life and it has taught me about the pastor I want to become. As the world came to a screeching halt this spring, our work continued in full-force – people had no other place to go, so we served more food, kept our doors open longer, and loved people as best we could. Week after week our community grew and new people came to our door. One of the challenges we encountered was that new folks had a hard time distinguishing the “staff” from other community members. In response, the priest of our community decided to give each of us a lanyard and tag to signify our role – an easy enough fix, but its impact was profound.

When she handed the lanyard to me, I looked down and felt a mix of surprise, joy and deep comfort. On the end of a lanyard marked with the name “The Cathedral Church of St. Paul” hung a “Hello my name is…” tag, and scrawled across it in bold black Sharpie was my title: “Pastor Molly.”

I have never been referred to as a pastor before. Of course, I have done “pastoral” work, but without any official designation. And I still longingly wait for the moment when all those who feel the Divine’s call will be officially recognized and uplifted as pastors. What I realized in that moment, though, was that the beauty and authenticity of our community had called the role of pastor out of me. Over the years of showing up and getting to know the folks in our community, I am affirmed time and time again that I have a place, I have gifts and talents that are wanted – are needed – and I am able to claim my place as beloved. When the whole city shut down this spring, of course I weighed the health risks and momentarily considered staying home, but I knew that the MANNA community needed me, and I needed them. I felt profoundly called to continue showing up on the margins and to be in loving community with unhoused folks.

During this unprecedented time, when most other churches in the world were cold and bare, ours was full of people finding rest and connection (even amongst physical distancing), and our community once again affirmed my gifts; I was given, for the first time in my life, the title “pastor.”

I have been anointed.

In many ways, it is experiences like this that were made possible by the generosity of the Lucile Murray Durkin Scholarship. Because of the scholarship, I was able to devote myself more fully to my work as a pastoral caregiver this year; I was inspired to take courses, like a preaching course, I would not have before; I was connected to an incredible community of other women seekers through the WOC that have deeply supported me; I was inspired to keep working for the systemic change that is much needed in our church and world. The scholarship, and accompanying community, has given me confidence and deeply inspired me. I feel emboldened, honored and excited about this past year, and full of hope for the discernment that lies ahead.