What Calling Has To Do With Privilege

Picture this: a 10-year old girl passing out neighborhood flyers to advertise a fire-and-brimstone revival service in her living room the following day. Much to her parents’ surprise, people came and their little girl preached a passionate message of holy repentance, complete with an altar (or fireplace) call.

I’ve felt called to preach for as long as I can remember.

Calling is a peculiar thing. As much as you feel called and appointed, it can also feel like the reality of your work depends on opportunities granted by mere humans, or in my case, men. I’ve attended all kinds of churches spanning the scope of far-right complementarianism to no-holds-barred egalitarianism. One thing has remained true through them all: I have to prove myself to get in the pulpit. And while that’s good and right and wise, there comes a point when the proving becomes patronizing.

Like the time three lay men were allowed to preach during Sunday services without any theological training but my Bible college credentials weren’t enough.

Like the time I wasn’t allowed to lead a small group without my husband even though he had no interest or margin to lead.

Like the time I sat through a sermon that made a mockery of motherhood instead of pointing to the image bearer in all of us.

I remember the day I became fed up. I met up with a friend who worked at a local church and laid out my list of hurts. I lamented how it feels like I have to fight for a seat at the table, even in churches that tout full gender equality. One after the other, my accounts were meant to illicit agreement from her. But that’s not what happened. In a tender-yet-firm way that only she could, my friend spoke a hard truth I needed to hear. She said, “This is a reality Black women have lived with their whole lives.” That’s when it hit me: my complaints were exposing my privilege. She went on to challenge me, “Black women have never had the privilege of open door opportunities, so they have developed a rich imagination about how God might use their gifts for the Kingdom. Maybe God is asking you to have a better imagination.”

Jen Hatmaker addresses this same conviction in her book For the Love when she says, “We get to labor over our ‘calling’ because we are educated and financially stable, so many of us eschew the honor of ordinary work and instead fret over the perception of wasting our lives.” Guilty as charged. My passions are important, but they aren’t the main point. Jen goes on, “Calling is virtually never big or famous work; that is rarely the way the kingdom comes. It shows up, quietly, subversively, almost invisibly. Half the time, it is unplanned – just the stuff of life in which a precious human steps in, the good news personified.” True calling is born out of exercising creative faithfulness right where we are with what we’ve been given. In other words, calling takes shape when our imaginations take flight.

There’s a woman in the New Testament who I like to think had a pretty impressive imagination. The Apostle Paul talks about her in Romans 16:3-5 when he writes, “Greet Priscilla and Aquila, my fellow workers in Christ Jesus. They risked their lives for me. Not only I but all the churches of the Gentiles are grateful to them. Greet also the church that meets at their house.” Women didn’t hold much weight back in the day. That is to say, they were low on the hierarchy of privilege. It’s no mistake that Paul starts this introduction by naming Priscilla first and her husband Aquila second. Scholars theorize two reasons for this: (1) Priscilla became a Christ-follower before her husband and (2) Priscilla may have been more theologically knowledgeable than her husband. Whatever the case may be, Priscilla was a woman who used her imagination to influence others for the kingdom. From telling Gentiles about Jesus (Romans 16:4), to hosting a house church (Romans 16:5), to kindly correcting a young preacher’s theology (Acts 18:26), Priscilla didn’t allow her status to silence her gifts.

I have a lot to learn from women like Priscilla and my Black sisters. In her prophetic book, I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness, Austin Channing Brown writes, “This is the shadow of hope. Knowing that we may never see the realization of our dreams, and yet still showing up.” Our Black sisters model holy resiliency for us, but they shouldn’t be expected to. As I searched my own soul and began to listen to the Women of Color around me, I realized I am part of the problem. I have led small groups, implemented ministry programs, and organized an army of volunteers, but my ambition was insatiable. I believed I was made for more, so I wanted more. Brown also says in her book, “Rare is the ministry praying that they would be worthy of the giftedness of Black minds and hearts.” I confess and repent because I have pursued the chorus of my sameness over the beautiful diversity of God’s kingdom.

Forgive me, Lord.

I’m listening, I’m learning, and I’m letting my imagination take flight.