It’s official: the Clergy Session voted yesterday to
commission me: a Mexican American, mother, partner, poet, preacher, creature.
Here in the Pacific Northwest we advocate for
immigrant clergy and continue to work for inclusion of those who identify as Ethnic Minority Clergy and Lay Ministers. We have Hispanic and Latino ministers who are
Licensed Local Pastors and Certified Lay Ministers. We have a committee to
serve us and a Director of Hispanic/Latino Ministries in the Office of
Connectional Ministries.
So it might seem that we could/should/would
have ordained a Mexican American before now. Perhaps that is why it is really difficult
to determine for sure if we have ever ordained a Mexican American. When people hear that
I may be the first Mexican American or even the first Latino/Latina to be ordained their
reactions tend to stem from shock and sadness. They experience something like
whiplash because they were moving toward realizing diversity at such a clip
until I awoke them to this halting reality.
The most
common response to the news that I might be the first is one of surprise. First
they have to recall the fact that I am Mexican American-because I don’t look or
sound like their idea of Mexican. Then they wonder, how can it be that it took
this long?! Finally, they begin to wonder how to respond. It is painful enough
to have to defend or remind someone that my Mexican heritage is real and
authentic. As part of my ordination process, I have had to be an unwelcome
reminder that systematic exclusions are still in place and undermining our
efforts to be a diverse community.
This is such hard work! There will
be a temptation to minimize this achievement for our conference; it’s a
somewhat dubious honor to be the first in our annual conference because it
means it has taken us this long to smuggle someone in. There are such high
walls- both literal and figurative -that were meant to reinforce beliefs about
what belongs to whom. My pastoral work is marked by the fact that my mere
presence might cause people to see a kingdom in which the last shall be
first-and those who have been first heretofore may not like what they see.
Inviting me to join the ranks of clergy is an open invitation to all of us (you
and me both!) to see the system (and ourselves in it) with new eyes that look
kindly on what we struggle to understand.
Those who hold the institutional
memory either in a digital format or in their heads and hearts want to be sure
before we claim that I am first before we do so. They are just now beginning
the research. But just as my commissioning has not been a solo effort, nor will
this next project be. This next project of spreading the question abroad and
checking the archives is fraught with danger: will we do the work as if it is holy
and important? Will we celebrate well if we arrive at the conclusion it has
taken us this long to take this next step of faith? Will we hold the sadness
and the joy so that we are moved to action?
I hope we do: my ordination will be
a call to action for all who believe in lifting up those who are
underrepresented, disenfranchised and suffering federally mandated exclusion.
Including me in the ranks of clergy gives me a vote, invites me to the table
and begins a new age of increasing diversity in our institution. I think that
is worth celebrating even if we experience pain along the way.
In a recent article Sam Hodges
briefly explained the many factors that hold so many Hispanics and Latinos back
from becoming ordained elders or keep us out of seminary.[1]
The temptation for Hispanic/Latinos to remain Licensed Local Pastors or
Certified Lay Ministers is strong because we are a necessary part of leadership
right now –we don’t have time to go
to school far away from our congregations- and at pay rates new faith
communities can afford. Hodges also mentions, however, the danger inherent in
relying on the office of LLP or CLM: we will remain underrepresented and
underpaid. An already complex process of discerning a call to ministry is made
more so by questions immigrants must answer about their unique position in a glocal society where cultural loyalties
create deep-seated ambivalence in our families. Add to this ambivalence
questions about legal status and the immigrant experience of itinerancy. In a
recent conversation with a friend who attended seminary as a DACA student we
discussed the ways the experience of immigration affects our ability to fully
embrace the itinerant system that is just now learning to adapt to account for
the unique needs of qualified clergy whose citizenship is in limbo.
Until those of us with power and
privilege use such assets to raise up another who identifies as Hispanic/Latino
I will be the only recognized ethnic representative on many issues for some of
our nearest and dearest neighbors. I’m
not exactly the first person I would have chosen to do this task; I’m biracial,
my Spanish language skill is only slowly growing as my friends and family
graciously correct me in our Spanglish conversations. But I was born on
American soil, raised to speak English fairly well and managed to get an MDiv
and although this qualifiers are standard among my Anglo colleagues, I’m a
rarity among my talented Hispanic/Latino colleagues.
As the daughter of a Caucasian
mother and Mexican American father I was born with very light skin and a family
that urged me to chase the same dreams my white(r) friends pursued. Of course,
my road was a bit bumpier than most because no one in my family had ever earned
a masters degree. Looking back on the myriad cultural misgivings and mistakes I
made (just trying to “pass” and pass one more class) I see now that there were
people along the way who recognized what I was going through. They reminded me
to be myself even (especially) when I least wanted to be. They didn’t do it for
my sake but because they knew their world would need me to have a sturdy sense
of what set me apart. They taught me to recognize my unique gifts as a
privilege. As time passed I realized that if I want to steward this privilege
well, I needed to take on the responsibility of stepping out into the fray,
leading, in such a way that will make it easy for others to follow.
The questions that I must answer as
I continue this journey are daunting. How will others recognize and receive my
gift to the church and how will I find my place in the church if there has
never been anyone else like me to fill these pulpits? How do I hold on to what
makes me unique as the system that prepares us urges in compelling and/or
subversive ways to adopt it’s ways spiritually, theologically, emotionally? The
answers to these seem to lie in naming the people, polity and projects that
have helped me to identify the ways in which the Order mandates I hold on to
what makes me different.
The committees and clergy who have
walked with me the last ten years of work toward ordination have helped me
discover who I am called to be. What is more, they have had to imagine how I
fit into a system that wasn’t built to include me. In some cases, they have
even had to recognize my budding calling long before I did. They have consulted
with those who saved a place for me at The Table. They have murmured to one
another in awe that we have come this far. There are those who prayed for me
before I was born, hoping that one day there would be a young biracial Latina
mother with arms wide and strong enough to carry us into the next phase of
diversity.
So it’s not me we celebrate. We
celebrate movement that truly opens doors, and gives voice to the unheard.
Commissioning has never been about passing privilege between friends. It is a
chance for all God’s people to relish and renew your commitment to welcoming
the strangers into your power structure, clothing the orphans with robes and
stoles, and standing aside when the widows take their places in your pulpits.
…By the power of Christ the blessed
outcast, the holy coyote who smuggles
us across borders built by fear so we may preside over the plate for all
people, Amen.
