The Sunday She Stood


I was 30 years old the first time I heard a woman preach.

And no, it wasn’t a women’s conference. Or a Bible study. She wasn’t a visiting missionary, or giving that cute little mini message that happens before the actual sermon.

I mean honest-to-goodness-Sunday-morning-real-deal-preaching.

I happened to be at a church I drop in on once in a blue moon. After being enveloped in the sweetness of worship, I settled contentedly into my straight-backed chair. Bible open, pen poised. Ready.

Then she walked up.

I had never seen a She walk up to the platform. On a Sunday morning. You know, when the serious Christians come to church to hear a message. The message. For, like, the whole week.

My pen froze in my hand and I looked around nervously.

Was someone going to get upset? Leave? Was she going to be greeted with eye rolls and scowls?

I held my breath and darted my eyes to the right and left.

As I scanned the congregation, I realized I was the only one who wasn’t completely at ease.

Bibles were being flipped open, pleasant expressions remained intact, all eyeballs stayed decidedly fixed forward.

Actually, I was the only one acting anything less than a functioning human being. I chided myself for thinking I was in for a rumble, and assumed the settled posture of my fellow congregants.

I had several friends who attended the church, and I later brought up the fact that I had never heard a woman preach before that Sunday. I was greeted with raised eyebrows and looks of comic disbelief.

“Really? You can’t be serious.”

I was serious.

And their amused bewilderment left me feeling something I wasn’t expecting.

Continue reading the rest of this piece over at SheLoves Magazine . . .


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