About six months into the process, I sought feedback and was surprised at what I heard. Although they saw value in the process, several people expressed it took too long and involved too many steps. When I took a poll, others agreed. So I asked those most vocal to take on a project to improve the process. I gave the team a few boundaries and sent them off. The results were wonderful. The process was streamlined and allowed for other topics during those staff meetings. Also, the team had gathered broad input across the department, so everyone was committed to the new process, and we gained even more benefits.

The situation reminded me of this passage. Early in the building of the Christian church, shortly after Jesus’ resurrection and ascension, the people also had a complaint:

Of course, I’m not suggesting we aren’t teaching women Scripture, but in the rush to fill in the blanks, we aren’t teaching women to handle the Word as theologians. Some women’s ministry leaders have made statements that undermine the process of doing theology, suggesting that because knowing theology is not provisional for salvation that somehow it lacks practical value. We are good at teaching principles and precepts from the Word, but are we communicating interdependence between life and doctrine? Is there a place of theological education in the context of women’s ministry?

“No problem,” I laughed. “’Nobody behind me’ is the story of my life…..”

And it really is. I can’t tell you the number of times in my life as a leader, I’ve look around—amazed—that for once people actually sometimes follow me. Because it certainly wasn’t always the case.

Growing up, I was never the kid who always had some great thing going, the girl everyone looked to to start the fun. Instead, I was the sort to shyly suggest a game or activity and have everyone go, “Nah…. Let’s play this instead!” I wasn’t on student council in high school, and I was not the social go-to person. And in college, I sort of dug into my studies (and—okay—a bit of socializing) and didn’t lead anything.

The only inklings I had through much of my early life that I might have some sort of leader-like gifts were when I would write. Apparently, I always had a knack for “persuasive” writing—and was on more than one occasion deemed a “thought leader” by teachers and professors. Not bad, but certainly not the same as a leader leader. At least not in my mind.

Unfortunately, cheap sometimes has a hidden price tag. The prices of certain goods—from soccer balls to candy bars—are low because the people who produce them are paid little or nothing for their labor. The laborers in sweatshops and harvesters on plantations pay a dear price so that we can have, by our own admission, too much food and too much stuff.

I love bargains, but I also want to live a compassionate life—and lead others to do the same. To do so, I must look beyond the price tag on an item to its hidden price.

But as I travel the world speaking to women in ministry, I have found a substantial obstacle to seeing that happen. One might think the biggest barrier would be convincing men that women are needed for this assignment, but that’s not the most difficult challenge.

A greater challenge seems to be opening the eyes of women to see that we are mission critical. That the task of Kingdom building will not happen unless every daughter of God is prepared and equipped and given opportunity to make her best contribution to the mission at each season of her life.

Having this conversation face-to-face has definitely crossed your mind. Perhaps face-to-face is an impossible option due to time or distance. Or maybe it is simply easier not to have to look this particular person in the eyes. Either way, you find yourself in a moment of challenging communication. Two computer screens, cyberspace, and a chasm that opens you up to the vast canyons of misinterpretation standing between you and another person.

In our world of electronic anonymity, where screen names, nicknames, and protected passwords can hide our identities, disagreement and engagement that shows value for others and integrity has become increasingly hard to come by. Whether inside the church or out, behind the shield of a laptop we are engaging one another in new and increasingly painful ways.

Yet some of the greatest lessons I learned simply came from being with Lynne and her sheep. One of which was simply hearing Lynne’s story of becoming a shepherd. Nearly twenty years ago, she purchased her first three sheep sight unseen. All of them were pregnant, and she had no idea what to do, yet she managed to figure it out. As the years passed, the flock naturally grew and she developed new skills along the way.

At one point Lynne said to me, “Margaret, it’s interesting being a shepherd, because a bunch of years go by and you end up being 65 years old and having a lot of young shepherds calling and asking, ‘What do I do?’ And you wake up one morning and realize you’re a shepherd of shepherds.”

And not just the Miley Cyrus, High School Musical flavor. I like the beat thumping, chorus humming, and—dare I say it—booty-shaking kind. There it is. I am a woman in my early 30s, with three children and a minivan. I run a Christian counseling practice and a women’s ministry. People look to me for soul direction and depth, and in my spare time, I like to dance around and get low, low, low.

The best part? I think that’s OK with Jesus.

My senior pastor plays tennis on a team with my husband’s co-worker. Last week, the team finished a game and had some beers in a cooler. One of them offered my pastor a beer and (gasp!) he took it. Later, the co-worker told my husband that he cringed because his teammate must not have known he was offering a beer to a pastor. The co-worker reported. “Wow, I was surprised he had a beer with us. That’s cool.”

The door is open for my husband to invite his co-worker to our church, because he is disarmed—experiencing something that goes against his preconceived notions of Christianity. I think that’s OK with Jesus too.

I don’t know about you, but neither “best friend” nor “lifelong friend” is on my friends list. As a Pastor’s kid who moved several times in my lifetime, those relationships didn’t move with me. In adulthood I have a tapestry of friends who are crisscrossed around the country but the deeper question is how many of those who have woven themselves into my life am I open and real with? How many do I communicate with about the real stuff of life?

The deep cry of most women’s hearts that I come in contact with has to do with authentic relationships. Most of us have amassed a long list of acquaintances that we pass off as friends. And those of us in leadership have an even longer list. We throw around the term “community” yet I think a deep experience of community and authentic relationships is elusive for most of us. So how do we develop authentic community? How do we know others and allow ourselves to be known? I’m in the middle of this journey.

One night during Lent, perched on my lap in the dark of his room, Quinn returned my question with one of his own: “I eat Christ?”

I was sure I had heard him wrong. So I asked my question again. “I eat Christ.” This time, a declaration. What a strange and disturbing thing for him to say, I thought. What are they teaching him in the nursery at church? I mumbled something about thanking God for Quinn, our family and our friends. I said, “Amen,” and Quinn responded in kind.

A few days later, he tried again. Same question, same response.

“I eat Christ.” This time, Quinn turned his palms skyward and placed his right hand over his left, in front of his heart. As if to emphasize his point, he added, “At church.”

He has been watching us.

The young girl’s eyes widened. “Why? Where are we going?”

The reply? “To the edge of your chair!”

No one ever whispered those words in my ear, but several years ago, quite unexpectedly I found myself on the edge of my chair too. I was listening to an academic lecture on the Old Testament Book of Ruth. The need for a warning, in both cases, was warranted—not to brace us for a nail-biting cliffhanger, but to alert us that what we were about to hear would forever change how we view ourselves and our mission in this world. We were about to be called into the big story God is weaving, in a bigger way than we ever imagined.

For generations the church has tended to look at the women in the Bible through the wrong end of the telescope. Guided by the assumption that God does his most important kingdom work through men, we’ve seen women’s lives in a diminished perspective and, as a result, our own lives have appeared smaller too.

I’m kidding, of course, but this is the pendulum on which I swing when it comes to men, women, lust, and modesty—compassion for male hard-wiring that requires frustratingly painful diligence, and irritation that the latter is true. I share Tracey Bianchi’s conviction (part 1) that both sides have a part to play in working towards the common good. Men to do, well, whatever it is men do to keep their thought lives pure, and women to not carry ourselves in a way that leads a pastor to confess his roving eyes to an applause-filled congregation. As a leader who strives to build up the body, I take my choices about what to wear seriously.

But I have to tell you, recently I was forced to pick up my modesty box and shake it, flip it, and bang it against the wall a few times. The jolt came in an email from a woman who had seen me speak to a mixed-gender crowd. Here’s what she said:

Go ahead and roll your eyes. I’m sure God did too. Because, of course, no one was asking me to be president. They were asking me to consider a nomination to be a member. Quite a different thing. And yet, I know myself well: Once I get involved in something, I get involved. I don’t like loose affiliations or peripheries. I don’t like to dip a toe; I like to dive in. I don’t want to stand by; I want to stand out. I don’t want to a part; I want to in charge. Hence, my prayer.

For the longest time I credited this drive to be the one to set agendas and cast visions to my leadership gifts, but this ridiculous prayer opened my eyes to something else that goes on in my “gifted” brain. And it’s nothing short of a control freak tendency.

I never realized that’s what it was because, honestly, I’m not a control freak in most areas of my life. I don’t micro-manage my kids. Or my husband. Or my home. I don’t try to run my friends’ lives. I don’t hassle my neighbors. I don’t butt into everyone else’s business.

The problem is with my own business.

Being in the public eye might have some perks, but the heat of scrutiny is not something I desire. When I have a meltdown—as we all do from time to time—it’s in the privacy of my own home. Nobody cares, except maybe my husband. But I do enjoy the freedom to have human moments and not feel the backlash of an entire nation wagging their tongues the next morning.

Why do these outbursts surprise us? When did we start assuming that celebrities are on a higher moral plane than the rest of us and won’t make petty mistakes?