Deacons and Elders and Me
In the church of my childhood they were all called deacons. The men who met once a month to lead the work of the church. Some managed the finances. Some oversaw the care of widows and the poor. They prayed for the pastor. They knew the struggles and the joys of the church.
Only the godly men. And so, I was proud my dad was one of them. And his dad before him. I never asked whether or not I’d grow up to be a deacon. I wouldn’t. As a child, I knew how these things worked: where the men belonged, where the women belonged.
I also knew that the role I would play in church had nothing to do with how God saw me. Some things, back then, were easy to separate.
. . .
One year of training, a church’s vote, and I will be ordained on Sunday. An elder. Me. A thirty-five-year-old stay-at-home-mom. Me, the lady in charge of the two unruly blonde boys running wild and stuffing donuts in their mouths on any given Sunday.
Me, a woman.
In the church tradition I now belong to, there are both deacons and elders—deacons to care for the needs of the community, and elders to spiritually lead, support our head pastor, guide the church through decisions. It’s the elders that James instructs (in his little New Testament book) to pray for the sick, anoint their heads with oil.
The weight of the responsibility is enough to make my stomach churn. But still, they asked me. And because they asked, I’ll do it. I will.
. . .
I’m over at Deeper Story today today telling my story of women, leadership in the church, and God’s movement in my life. Click here to read it.
(I wrote about vows and being ordained an elder here last month as well.)