Pastrix: The Cranky, Beautiful Faith of a Sinner & Saint
Nadia Bolz-Weber
Language: English
Pages: 224
ISBN: 1455527076
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Heavily tattooed and loud-mouthed, Nadia, a former stand-up comic, sure as hell didn't consider herself to be religious leader material-until the day she ended up leading a friend's funeral in a smoky downtown comedy club. Surrounded by fellow alcoholics, depressives, and cynics, she realized: These were her people. Maybe she was meant to be their pastor.
Using life stories-from living in a hopeful-but-haggard commune of slackers to surviving the wobbly chairs and war stories of a group for recovering alcoholics, from her unusual but undeniable spiritual calling to pastoring a notorious con artist-Nadia uses stunning narrative and poignant honesty to portray a woman who is both deeply faithful and deeply flawed, giving hope to the rest of us along the way.
Wildly entertaining and deeply resonant, this is the book for people who hunger for a bit of hope that doesn't come from vapid consumerism or navel-gazing; for women who talk too loud, and guys who love chick flicks; for the gay man who loves Jesus, and won't allow himself to be shunned by the church. In short, this book is for every thinking misfit suspicious of institutionalized religion, but who is still seeking transcendence and mystery.
two plates of less adventurous chile relleno burritos, Matthew asked me about my interests. We spoke of social issues: racism, homelessness, and women’s rights, and we saw eye to eye on everything. Then he said, “Well, my heart for social justice is rooted in my Christian faith.” Um, what? I just stared at him, saying nothing. He went on to tell me that he was a Lutheran seminary student at Iliff School of Theology, and that he was in the peace and social justice–focused master of divinity
but words of wisdom I had none. I just felt the unfairness of it all. I felt the uncontrollable terror of loss, the finality of someone never having a father again. I felt a sadness that is both poetic and grotesque. I would stand by and witness the disfiguring emotional process we politely call grief and, yes, I was aware of God’s presence, but I wanted to slap the hell out of him or her or it. After all, maybe if God sensed that I wasn’t a girl to fuck with, then my loved ones would be spared.
(Jesus holding my head under the waters of my own baptism until I cry uncle), I had a long conversation with my enemy. Since the Pirate and I were in the middle of a fellowship hall at the conference, the crowd around us who knew about our feud perhaps expected a showdown. But instead, they saw us share a thirty-minute public dialogue about our own brokenness and need for confession and absolution, why we need the Gospel, and what happens in the Eucharist. And as he talked he cried. Twice. I
of my church growing, I dreamed of having seventy people at liturgy. Seventy people could share the work, pay the bills, and still know who each other were. With forty-five people I did more than my share of work, paid more than my share of bills, and knew I resented it. The lack of growth in church attendance was maddening to me; as soon as we’d get a couple of new people, three would move out of town. There was a creeping futility that felt like it was hunting me down spiritually. I was
Sid and Nancy. Whatever Hollywood movie I had absorbed and decided was “me,” the fact is that it took me years to become willing to rethink this idea of myself. The idea that I was slightly out of control (but in a charming way) and would die young had become like a favorite outfit I refused to vary because I liked how I looked in it. And at first this was exhilarating. As a teenager, I loved how I looked in the outfit of using drugs and exercising poor judgment. I had tried it on, spun around in