I REMEMBER WALKING HOME FROM SCHOOL one day pestering the people I walked with, singing to them the liturgy from the Lutheran service book and hymnal. The tune and the words were special to me: "We praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee, we glorify thee...." I found it hard to understand that the others weren't interested in hearing me sing God's praises. I was 9 years old and in the fourth grade.
I have always had a love affair with the church. From the moment my family first entered the doors of Bethel Lutheran Church in Chicago, I found the church a place that would always draw me in. It did not occur to me then that I might pursue ordained ministry; women were not yet being ordained in the Lutheran Church.
But when I was in junior high, I decided I wanted to become the first black woman ordained in the Lutheran Church. I soon decided, however, that being the first was not the right reason to become a minister. So I went to college and majored in education, then taught for five years.
After getting married and relocating to Washington, D.C., I began working as the community worker at a Lutheran church in Southwest D.C. My responsibilities were primarily in youth work and community outreach.
During the second summer I was there, the pastor went away for a few weeks and invited me to preach. As I stood in the pulpit and looked out into the congregation, all I could see was a very gracious and caring white-haired woman, smiling encouragingly up at me. My first thought was, "Deaf God, I don't want to shortchange her!"And suddenly I felt very calm. As I preached, I felt less nervous and very much at home. "This is my niche! This is where I belong!" I thought. The next week I went to Wesley Theological Seminary and registered for two classes.
At Wesley I enjoyed being a student again, until one of the black seminarians ..asked,. "How can you be black and be Lutheran?" I didn't know. I had never thought about it. The Lutheran Church is predominantly white, ethnically German and Scandinavian. It is highly structured and without the display of lively emotions most blacks are used to in their religious experiences. The Lutheran Church was the only church I had ever really known, and yet suddenly I was thrust into an identity crisis that really rocked me.
EVERY NEW EXPERIENCE found me questioning who I was. I wasn't sure anymore. Then my question became not "Who am I?" but "What gift do I have, what talents do I bring to the church?" I felt inadequate. I was an OK student but no theologian. I wasn't sure there was one specific area of ministry I could point to as being an area of expertise for me. But I was being pulled, and ordained ministry was where I wanted to be, so I enrolled at the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
On the first afternoon I was on campus, several people greeted me by name. I quickly learned I was the only black there. As the semester progressed, I appeared to have little in common with many other students. Even a commitment to social justice issues, which I had taken as a given where the church was concerned, didn't seem to have a high priority on many students' lists. I continued to question my place in the church and my talent--or perceived lack of a talent. .
My internship was spent at a small mission congregation in a mostly white community. I remember hearing a child say that her parents thought the vicar would bring in new black members. I confided my anxiety to a member of my support committee, who told me the congregation might be anxious because 1 am a woman, not because I am black. I wanted to learn and have a good internship experience, but I didn't want to blaze any new trails. I wanted my ministry and service to be the focal point, not that I am a woman or black.
Throughout seminary I had been a member of the Commission on Racism for the Eastern District of the American Lutheran Church. I deeply respected the people who were a part of this commission because they loved the church so much that they were willing to fight to have it be the church, to struggle for wholeness and diversity. It became more clear that the ministry we are involved in is the issue, and not the persons and the egos that can get in the way, often obstructing the vision of what the church can be.
IT WAS WHILE working with the commission that I discovered answers to my questions: I did indeed have a talent. My talent is not as tangible as those of others--I can't sing or draw. But my talent is in developing and fostering relationships, providing an environment that is non-threatening so that fear and anxiety are reduced and learning can take place. The talent is in being a bridge, enabling people to see and hear, to get from one point to another in their understanding of others. That is what I had done all my life. That is the gift I decided I bring to the Lutheran Church and one I try to give to the community of people with whom I am in contact.
During my last year in seminary, I worked as a graduate assistant with Bethany Lutheran Church in Forestville, Maryland. Bethany is a congregation with only a few black families but one that is committed to neighborhood and racial inclusiveness. The more I got to know the members of the congregation and the pastor, the more sure I was that if Bethany was interested in calling an associate pastor, I wanted to be the one called.
Following graduation, Bethany did call me, and I have found our team ministry to be a very effective way to use the talents of both pastors. There are members of the congregation who relate better to my co-worker than they do to me. There are members who relate better to me, a woman, than they do to my co-worker. And there are those who have changed their minds about a woman pastor.
One of the members is a home-bound woman who was adamantly against receiving communion from me. It was all right for me to visit with her and to perhaps bring her offering back to church. But when I first offered her communion, she got terrifically flustered.
During a visit, we talked about her reticence to receive communion from me. She explained she had nothing against me personally, but the issue was that I am a woman. We talked about how important the bread and wine are and about how unimportant the server is.
A few months later, my co-worker was on vacation when the woman called asking for communion before going to visit her doctor. I explained that the other pastor was on vacation; she said she knew and wanted me to commune her. She wanted communion; she decided receiving it was the important thing. She introduces me now to the people she lives with as her pastor, not as the associate at her church, as she used to do.
I am still learning who this black woman pastor is. I am still learning how to use who I am as a black person and as a woman to provide a strong witness for the church. I have no doubts that being black and a woman are important and integral to who lam, and yet for me those factors are not the issue in ministry.
The issue is sharing together the sacramental moments of our lives, the times when heaven and earth touch--holy communion, baptism, worship, touching people, and being touched by them when we celebrate joys and huddle together in pain. The issue is that we share a relationship with God and with each other, and it takes many talents and a variety of people to populate our church.
Laura Griffin was the second black woman to be ordained in the American Lutheran Church and served as associate pastor of Bethany Lutheran Church in Forestville, Maryland when this article appeared.
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