“…at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered,
because each one heard them speaking
in the native language of each.
Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘
Are not all these who are speaking Galileans?
And how is it that…in our own languages
we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power?’”
(Selected verses from Acts 2, NRSV)
“You’re the coolest minister I’ve ever met.”
So said the tattoo artist who gave me my first ever tattoo, just a few weeks ago, at Talisman BodyArt in Santa Fe. To honor the struggle she and we have been through in the past eighteen months, and the progress she has made, and the commitment we both have to her full recovery, Sarah had invited me to join her in getting a tattoo that she had designed, based on the logo for NEDA, the National Eating Disorders Association.
In spite of my very real fear that the pain would be excruciating and I would not be able to keep myself from screaming, sobbing, passing out, or otherwise completely embarrassing myself, I took a deep breath and agreed. Truth be told, I felt honored by her invitation. And besides, on the verge of turning the ripe old age of 52, I decided it was high time I got my first tattoo!
I went first—knowing that if I watched Sarah get hers, I might very well bolt, never to return again, and I really did want to do this. Jordan, the tattoo artist, was a lovely young woman who, as it turned out, had grown up in Los Alamos. She had been doing tattoos for several years and, when she found out she would be giving me my first one, quickly and graciously put me at ease.
When she was ready to start the actual tattooing, she told me she would do one small section and then check in with me to see how I was doing. I had, of course, shared my fear and dread with her! I told her I was ready, and looked away, looking instead at Sarah, who was sitting on the other side of me. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, putting on a brave face and bracing myself for the pain. And then Jordan began.
I waited for a moment as the tattoo pen she was using whirred…and then I said, “That’s it??” And she smiled and said, “Yep.” And I, with a mixture of pride and profound relief, exclaimed, “I’ve had three babies with no anesthesia! This is nothing!” Phew….
As she worked, Jordan chatted with Sarah and me, cheerfully answering the questions I asked her about growing up in Los Alamos, about other art she enjoys, about her work, etc. At one point, when there was a lull in the conversation, she asked me, “So what do you do?”
I looked at Sarah, and we both laughed. And I looked back at Jordan and said, “I’m a pastor.”
Jordan: “Really?!?!?”
Me: “Really.”
Jordan: “Wow! That’s cool!”
Sarah: “Have you ever tattooed a minister before?”
Jordan: “I’m pretty sure I have not! But that’s so cool! I’ll be able to brag to my friends about this!” Pause… “You’re definitely the coolest minister I’ve ever met.”
By the time we left, Sarah and I had these deeply meaningful tattoos:
And a very memorable shared experience. And I think that Jordan will remember it, too. I can’t say for sure, but I hope she remembers it as a time when a minister-mom broke some stereotypes, leaving judgment at the door and offering acceptance instead, stepping away from condemnation and stepping into her world with curiosity, extending kindness and respect along with my arm. And I hope that maybe, through our interactions, Jordan was able to hear something about the goodness of God in a language she could understand….
In what ways do those we encounter who are not part of the “church-going club” hear us speaking about God? Do we speak in “languages” they can understand?
God, help us… Amen.
Peace, and the power of translation, be with us all.
Deb