The Sunday my Skirt Became the Sermon

The church is not a museum for saints; it’s a hospital for sinners.”

It may be a bit of a cliche, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t true. The Pharisees judged Jesus harshly in Luke 5 for eating with tax collectors and sinners.

Jesus responded by saying, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”

This is where I interject to state the obvious. If you had the choice to hang out with judgmental Pharisees or open-minded tax collectors and sinners, wouldn’t you choose the sinners every time? Who really can relax and have fun around people who are determined to find fault in you?

The Pharisees struggled with a deeper spiritual problem: the temptation of wearing the mask of spiritual superiority. I don’t need help. I’ve got my shit together.

What if the people at the hospital refused to acknowledge they were sick? What if, despite the evidence of their hospital gowns and patient arm band, they envisioned themselves as helpful assistants to the doctor, nodding their heads in vigorous agreement—“That’s good advice for a friend of mine.”

It is laughable, I know, but one of the most challenging struggles for Christians today is accepting our own spiritual depravity.

I include myself in this farce.

When I first started ministry in college, it was a bit of an accident. My parents were missionaries to Japan. I had grown up attending a small mission school and worshipping in my parents’ tiny church. Despite living in Japan, my world was small.

I was determined, despite my mother’s concern, to never attend a small Christian college, like everyone else in my family, but a University. I wanted to leave the nest and experience the “real world.”

At the University of Oregon, I was exposed to a new reality for the first time: loneliness. In retrospect it was a bit traumatic. My parents took me to my dorm room, gave me a hug, and the next day were on a plane back to Japan. I had never spent more than two weeks away from them; I was 17 years old. I was at a new college where I knew no one.

Out of desperation, I called my grandparents who lived in town. On Sundays, like clockwork, we went to church and lunch. The routine centered and helped me adjust as I made friends and ventured out into the world of adulthood.

The small church we attended was in need of a music minister. I had some gifts in that area and was looking to earn a little money. The pastor kindly offered me the part-time position. I accepted.

In many ways it was a magical time. My grandfather was in my tiny choir and my biggest supporter. Almost everyone in the choir was in their 50s or older. I was 19 years old and didn’t know what I was doing half the time. I had many years of experience from growing up on the mission field, but very little academic experience. He would always chuckle and beam with pride whenever I introduced a new song or we worked out the parts together.

I owe him so much. We made some of my favorite church memories. He always made me feel valued, worthy, and loved. My grandfather instilled in me so much of the strength that has helped me get back on my feet when life has beaten me down. He has restored my faith in men—in humanity. I remember his support, his kindness, his deep love for me.

But not every experience was wonderful. Every Sunday, I was nervous. I recognized the performative aspect of worship ministry from the beginning. It was me, standing in front of the whole congregation. I had to be prepared, look professional, and at the same time facilitate people into a transcendental spiritual experience.

No problem. I got this covered.

I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Part of the experience was flattering, to be the center of attention. The other part was nerve-wracking. It didn’t feel the same way the mission church in Japan had felt. There, I never felt like there was a pressure to perform. My parents were the ministers; I was a decorative ornament.

But this was a job—this was different.

Of course, the minister in me today would say God should have been the center of attention, not me. But we all know that if you’re standing at the front of the church, who is the congregation looking at? This is perhaps the most difficult burden of being a minister.

We are stand-ins for God, and very poor ones.

As a college student, I was still learning how to operate as a functioning adult. I often stayed up past midnight eating pizza, “studying,” and hanging out with friends. I purposely scheduled my classes for after 10 am for this reason. I did not like early mornings, and Sundays were hard.

I arrived late and a little flustered. I was wearing a new yellow skirt I had bought with friends a few days before. Wearing something new was one of the confidence tricks I had learned. It helped me feel more secure when I stepped in front of the congregation to lead music.

It was a beautiful spring morning. The sun filtered through the stained glass windows and the sanctuary looked cheerful in the colored light. I felt my confidence grow with each song. I could hear the congregation singing with me. That was always a good sign. I led the choir through a musical number and then we sat down to listen to the pastor’s sermon.

I felt the relief of a job well done as we began to leave the sanctuary. The pastor’s wife signaled to me.

“Debby,” she said in a hushed whisper.

I made my way over to her.

“Your skirt,” she said. “It was see-through. You really should wear something else.”

“Really?” I said in shock. “I’m wearing a slip under it.” I showed her the edge of the white slip underneath the yellow fabric.

“Oh.” She frowned. “The sun was coming through the windows and you could just see everything.”