Boobs – Part 1 Of 2

Well… I don’t think I’ve ever REALLY found “trouble” at church. Nor with church. Nor in church.

The preacher, Frank Cook, busted me and Alex Cosmidis (my Sunday School teacher) for playing Rock-Paper-Scissors on the front row, during the sermon.

A long-standing church member complained to the Worship Committee one Sunday, after I dared to insitgate hand-clapping during the anthem.

And, of course, the time I got “the call” from a church leader about the inadvertent usage of inappropriate language, while leading a lifegroup gathering. (A Sunday School class, for the uninformed.)

By now, the story has made the rounds.

Monday morning, one of the church leaders called my cell phone.

“Jeffrey, it has come to our attention that you used an inappropriate word while teaching the lifegroup yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I guess it’s possible. I might have said something I should not have said. What did I say?”

“You used the word, ‘boobs.'”

I had to stifle my laughter. “Boobs? When did I say ‘boobs?’ That’s right, I did. I absolutely said ‘boobs.’ I don’t understand the fuss. Everybody’s got ‘em. We’ve all seen ‘em. God made ‘em.”

In hindsight, I should have said less in that conversation.

I vividly recall the moment. The lifegroup was talking about gender and church leadership. I made the statement: “If Sophia Griffin came home and said, ‘Daddy, I want to be a preacher,’ it would be a terrible thing to look at her and say, ‘I’m sorry, baby, you can’t be a preacher because you have boobs.'”

Somebody was offended. Oh, well.

As a parent, I hammer the nail relentlessly.

“You CAN do. You WILL do. We are with you, NO MATTER WHAT.”

Dream big. Get after it. No excuses. Don’t hope for second place. If it matters to you, it matters to us.

No thought is too ridiculous. No idea is too outlandish. We specialize in the impossible and the unlikely.

The volume is not too loud. The song is not too fast. The show is not too much.

God loves miracles.

G.O.D. takes the most unqualified to the do the most unlikely for the most ungrateful with no budget and no agenda and no facilities.

So… there. I’ve probably offended a few more, along the way. I apologize, but, not really.

Go. Do. See. Make it happen. Find a way.

That’s how we feel. That’s how we live. It doesn’t mean everybody that feels differently, is wrong. I think God welcomes all of us.

No age requirement. No dress code. No minimum.

There’s a LOT to learn in a chorus of “Jesus Loves Me” and “Just As I Am.”

Imagine my surprise when I learned the Southern Baptist Convention voted to advance a formal ban on women serving as pastors.

Really? Seriously? Y’all are yankin’ my leash, right?

Isn’t it more important to give a thirsty man a drink of water than to argue over whether the woman at the well is white or black or red or yellow or orange or green or purple or brown or spotted or striped?

Straight? Gay? Undecided? Wealthy? Poor? Disabled? Gifted? Old? Young? Democrat? Republican? Northern? Southern? Educated? Ignorant? Loud? Quiet? Fat? Skinny? Male? Female?

Where is the line?

If Jesus behaved as some of us behave, I’m not convinced he would have found the 12. Or, if it makes you feel any better, the 11.

Uncomfortable with a female pastor? Fine. Great. You’re entitled. There’s a faith community for you, too. (Unofficially, I’m betting the potluck won’t be spectacular. But, you do you.)

Why ban an entire gender? Why tell nearly 2,000 churches, “you’re not welcome,” literally, because their pastor has boobs?

I’m not making fun of the situation. (Alright, I might be poking the small-minded leadership bears. But, this is a real thing.)

My heart breaks.

I’ve been disillusioned with a great many more male pastors, than female pastors. I’ll leave it at that.

My. Heart. Breaks.

For my grandmother, Blanche. For my mother, Margaret. For my wife, Vikki. For my daughter, Sophia.

For the thousands, if not millions, of women that have stood up and spoken up to lead the way and set the example when the men were absent, or, would not carry the load.

But mostly, for my son, Miles.

He looks at the world and wonders, “why not my Nannie? Why not my mom? Why not my sister?”

Someday, he’ll lean against a marble column and marvel, “why not my wife?”

Someday, he’ll swing beside the porch rail and ask, “why not my daughter?”

Someday, he’ll call. “Dad-O, why not?”

And the only answer I’ll be able to give is, “boobs, son. Boobs.”