Broken & Holy Shells

Life as a Female Pastor

“What’s it like being a woman in a male-dominated profession?” This is a question I have been asked countless times throughout my ministry.

Over the years, I have served in all kinds of ministry roles, from non-ordained ones like youth director, mission director, and seminary intern to ordained roles as an associate and solo pastor. Along the way, I’ve gathered a lot of memories. Some broken. Some holy. Like shells along the shore, each one carries a story.

In his book As I Recall, pastor and spiritual director Casey Tygrett describes our memories as shells we carry, where our bodies become like containers of both beauty and brokenness. As I reflect on my journey, I realize how many of my shells, both broken and holy, have been shaped by the unique challenges of being a female pastor.

As a 19 year-old college student, a little stone church near the Blue Ridge Parkway hired me as their youth director. It was there I first sensed a clear calling to ministry; a call both from God and affirmed within the faith community.

Then, at the age of 23, I knelt in prayer near the front pew of that same stone church and accepted God’s call to ministry.

Shortly after, my husband accepted a job an hour away from a Presbyterian seminary that was opening a second campus for commuter students. Together, we embraced the new opportunity and decided to move, preparing ourselves for the next chapter ahead.

Prior to the move, I shared my excitement with family about attending seminary. One family member asked, “Why would you want to do that?”

Another questioned, “Can women even do that?”

Soon, we settled into our new home, and I accepted an office job at a private day school. The school was affiliated with a church; a church that didn't affirm women in leadership. At the time, I needed a full-time job, and honestly, I did not think the church’s beliefs would affect my role as a development assistant.

Well, I was wrong.

About a year later, I toured the seminary campus and met with professors. I then applied and was accepted. When I shared the exciting news at work, one of the principals called me into his office, where an open Bible lay on his desk. I sat down across from him as he read 1 Timothy 2:11–15 aloud. Then, with his index finger resting on the passage, he looked up at me and said, “See, you are not called to be a pastor.”

I resigned shortly after that experience.

During seminary, I encountered more broken shells; painful moments that left me bruised on the inside. One of the most difficult occurred during an interview with a committee overseeing candidates in the ordination process. One gentleman spoke harshly during the meeting and challenged nearly every response I gave. After the interview, I sat in my car and cried. Later, the committee chair called and offered a heartfelt apology. She assured me that no other candidate would be treated that way again. After my interview, the committee had a lengthy discussion where the man admitted his opposition to women in pastoral leadership.

Actually, the occasional challenges in my call have not bothered me as much as the steady stream of small, dismissive comments—sometimes weekly—that quietly add broken shells to my container, affecting my mind, heart, and soul.

For instance, early in my first call as an associate pastor for youth and young adults, I served alongside an all-male group of youth ministers. We led large youth gatherings together, and I remember being introduced as giving a talk, while the others were said to be delivering sermons. This distinction has resurfaced in other settings, such as guest preaching, where after the service, people often shake my hand and refer to my sermon as a good talk.

I have also come to see how my role as a pastor impacts my daughters, as they have collected their own broken shells for me.

Once, my oldest was asked by a friend, “What do your parents do?”

She replied, “My dad is a health inspector, and my mom is a pastor.”

He corrected her: “You mean your dad is a pastor.”

“Nope,” she said simply. “My mom.”

Then, on a mission trip to Mexico, my youngest had to clarify to a local minister that I was indeed a pastor after he questioned it with disapproval.

In reflecting on the title pastor, I have come to realize that it is not earned so much by a degree, but is recognized in moments of humbly helping others experience Christ’s love and compassion. It is in these moments that the title feels most appropriate and authentic. I have come to accept that, for many people, I will never be their pastor or be considered a real minister—and that’s okay. I do not seek the title for validation or need it to affirm the worth of my work. Rather, I see it as part of my sacred calling from God to take on the role of a shepherd and extend care to the congregation and the surrounding community I am called to serve.

Some people ask, “What does your husband think of you as a pastor?” Well, he was one of the first to recognize my calling. In fact, he has taken the so-called controversy of female clergy to a new level, often introducing himself as the pastor’s wife. Many people laugh in response, while others are shocked into silence. As you can tell, my husband’s ego is fully intact, and his humor has broken down many walls before they even had a chance to form.

I know many male pastors face their own challenges in ministry; however, they rarely encounter gender-related concerns in their profession. Their initial callings are typically met with celebration, and their pastoral role is consistently affirmed in the community. In contrast, female pastors often hear dismissive side comments or witness subtle disapproval through body language which can undermine confidence and hinder leadership.

I’ve also come to realize I’m not the only one who collects broken shells. All around me, others carry their own. For example, the Black woman who is only allowed to enter through her client’s back door. The transgender gentleman whose new name isn’t recognized at the bank. The divorced woman denied communion in her home congregation. The gay Christian couple who wonders if any minister would officiate their religious wedding ceremony. Daily, I sadly add another person to my prayer list; a growing reminder of how often comfort wins out over simply treating people as people.

On days when I’m exhausted, the Spirit brings to mind my favorite scripture verse of Luke 1:37, where the angel Gabriel reassures Mary in her calling, saying, For nothing will be impossible with God.

And when I’m discouraged in ministry, God intercedes with hope offering a glimmer of divine light and redeeming love.

Like the young girl at a funeral who, after seeing me in a robe, whispered, “I’ve never seen a girl like me in a robe.”

Or during our third summer mission trip, the minister in Mexico who, after we served communion together, said, “We make a good team.”

Or in the hospital, when an elder introduced me as his minister, and a nurse commented, “I’m not too sure about female ministers,” he responded without missing a beat, “Well, I believe women ministers are just as good as—or even better than—their male counterparts.”

Or the youth pastor who, after two years of serving together, became more open to working alongside female clergy in his first call as a solo pastor.

I refer to these moments as holy shells, good and gracious memories that regardless of what others may say or do, continue to remind me of God’s calling on my life and encourage me to carry on in mission and ministry.