I confessed the other day in the church office that I am a PK—a preacher's kid. One of many, like Rev. Linda. "PKs can recognize each other, and they cluster together," somebody said. Ouch.
Are we PKs THAT weird and cliquish?
I dunno. Hence this blog post.
For me, being a PK meant that both my daddy and my momma graduated, together, from Union Theological Seminary in 1938. Their lives were shaped by the Great Depression and World War II. After ordination and service in two parishes, my dad went on to social justice work nationally and internationally. Mom became a mom (she couldn't even practice her secondary specialty, being an organist in dad's churches, because that would have been nepotism.)
I never wanted to be a minister, partly because of the patriarchal inequality of those times, but also because it meant being "special" in ways that separated you from ordinary folks in the community. For me, my soul's mandate was to "connect" at deep levels with all kinds of people, as equals. So I became a Quaker, of the kind that doesn't have ministers and follows a consensus process of decision-making in which we are all equals.
But my early years in my dad's churches gave me a deep sense of community. I learned from him and my mom to pay attention to the WHOLE of the congregation, how we worked, sang, breathed, prayed, lived and died together in the spirit. One year the parishioners worked together to stop a wildfire that was threatening our parsonage and my swing set. I'll never lose that awareness of embracing love.
So for me, PK-ness means the centrality of the beloved community—family, church, neighborhood, nation, planet.
But it also means democratic process and equality:
Male or female, black or white, purebred or mestizo, gay or straight or queer in any imaginable way, we all need an equal voice in our community's dialogue and decision-making.
* * *
Some months ago, an activist Latino in our congregation predicted that our church would NEVER endorse and focus our social justice efforts on immigration reform. I tossed the idea around with a few folks who gently laughed at my suggestion that we SHOULD tackle that issue.
But now the ministers have decided that we should indeed focus on immigration reform this year.
Hmm. Well, great. The ministers felt that had to make the decision themselves because there was no time for a congregational discussion and decision. Ouch.
* * *
Towards the end of their lives, my mom and dad had almost switched roles. She was clearly functioning as a lay minister in their retirement community. He was tending their garden and sinking into a peaceful, sweet senility. Their mutual love was palpable, surmounting all the alienation and resentments of earlier years.
Sorting out my dad's papers after his death, I found a scrap of yellow lined paper with some words from a sermon, a poetry quote (from Christopher Fry) that summed up dad's life:
"Thank God our time is now, when WRONG comes up to face us everywhere, never to leave us till we take the longest stride of soul men ever took."
Rev. Mary used those lines in her sermon at the very first UUCA service I ever attended. Hearing those words, I knew that I was "home" at last.
But my question is this:
What IS that "longest stride of soul" we all—men and women—must take?
Does it have anything to do with democracy and equality in shaping the beloved community?
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