The recent killings in Isla Vista, California were a tragic reminder of our society's skewed view of sexuality and women. Using the hastag #YesAllWomen, social media conversation prompted by the violence has focused on sexism and the pervasive objectification of women, often experienced as harassment and abuse. Here's a provocative story of how that objectification recently intersected one female pastor's ministry, bringing with it confusion, insecurity, and frustration. – Paul
Today I officiated at a wedding at the church where I am the lead pastor. During the reception, an older man stood behind me, squeezed my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "I've never seen a pastor with such nice legs." I laughed (a rather unladylike guffaw, I might add) and by the time I was done, he was gone.
Why did I laugh? What else should I have done?
Should I have been flattered? Felt empowered? Was he saying "A woman can lead and still be attractive"? Should I have been offended? Was he making sexual advances? Should I have shown understanding of generation differences? Maybe he's just from a different era, trying to wrestle with the fact that I stand in two categories which, for him, have not come together until now? Should I have been angry? Was this a power play to force me back into a role where I belong?
It took me back to a place of fear and shame. Once more, I was the cute little upstart, playing dress-up when she should leave the job to the professionals.
But it was just a few words. What's the big deal? And yet he reminded me of men who had acted inappropriately towards me when I was a girl. Men who, with a look or a word had put me in my place. Men who had seen me as nothing more than something to objectify. It took me back to a place of fear and shame. Once more, I was the cute little upstart, playing dress-up when she should leave the job to the professionals. And so, instead of responding like a lead pastor, I laughed. Instead of saying how inappropriate it was that a Christian man would speak in this way to his sister in Christ, how rude it was that a visitor to my church should speak to his host in that way, how offensive it was that a married man would speak to another man's wife in this way, I laughed.
And then I felt complicit in this little private interaction. I had no interest in keeping it intimate, so when the staff members sitting with me asked why I laughed, I told them. To release the shame and embarrassment, I shared it. To be reminded that I'm smart and respected, I reached out to people who see me as more than a pair of legs.
I work hard to draw attention away from myself and toward the One I serve.
But then I questioned myself. Have I now just made this about my legs? I work hard to draw attention away from myself and toward the One I serve. Soon, my colleagues, out of indignation and pure surprise (and also just because it makes a good story) had shared the story with others. But now are they all thinking about my legs? Next time I stand to preach will they think, "I wonder what that old man was talking about?" So I tried to make light of it and change the subject with a feeble attempt at humor, "Well, I'm going to take these legs and get me some dessert!"
As I stood, I was sure to hold down my dress. And as I did I found myself assessing my choices. But I had chosen this dress carefully. I remember thinking it was the dress version of the kind of suit a man might wear to officiate—nicely tailored, black. Not clingy or revealing. I had even practiced sitting in it to be sure it didn't ride up or gap. Although the dress was past calf length, maybe the split to allow movement also allowed a little more flash of leg than there should have been? Maybe I could have pinned the dress or avoided using the steps? Maybe I should have worn the black hose instead of the flesh tone to disguise the fact that I have legs? Does his distraction with my legs prove what I've heard said? That "women shouldn't be pastors because they're too distracting to men."
As I stood in the dessert line, I noticed the same man at the coffee pots and felt a little sick. I wondered how he was feeling about the interaction. Or if he remembered it at all? Maybe he had thought I'd say "Thank you?" Maybe he had expected me to blush? Maybe he was surprised at my flippancy? Maybe my laugh came across as the response of a woman confident in herself, in her leadership, sure of how to navigate the stereotypes of women. While his words left me questioning, I hope my laugh left him with the impression that I had it all worked out.
And while I continue to work it out, I'll remember that the voices about what the world expects of me aren't just in my head.
"A Female Pastor" is the senior leader and preacher for a colorful Midwest congregation.
