The Cranky,

Beautiful Faith of
a Sinner & Saint
Nadia Bolz- Weber
New York Boston Nashville
Also by Nadia Bolz- Weber:
Salvation on the Small Screen?:
24 Hours of Christian Television
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd vii 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
Fall 2005
S hit, I thought to myself, Im going to be late to New Tes-
tament class. The trafc on I-25 in Denver had stopped. Not
just slowed to an irritating pace, but fully stopped. For some
reason (misanthropy, most likely), I always assume that any
trafc stoppage or slowage is due not to construction or an
accident, but to human stupidity, as if someone had suddenly
forgotten how to drive or decided to stop and pick wildowers
on the interstate.
Attempting to redirect my general disdain for whatever
human idiocy has us all stopped on the freeway, and in one
of the countless attempts in my life to be more spiritual, I
tried to be present and nd something beautiful to distract
myself. The beauty of Colorado is something you have to try to
actively ignore rather than something you have to try to nd,
yet so often I forget this. The sky on that day was the kind of
clear blue that cannot be replicated or sufciently described.
Most human attempts to recreate this particular blue, while
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd xv 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
XVI I NTRODUCTI ON
well meaning, are facile. It can only be experienced. And on
that fall day, it lled every inch of sky, only occasionally punc-
tuated by a uffy, little Bob Ross cloud.
The sky was so gorgeous that I rolled down all my win-
dows and leaned forward to try to see more of it out of my
windshield. A trucker next to me winked and eyed my tat-
tooed arms unaware, Im certain, that the big tattoo cover-
ing my forearm was of Saint Mary Magdalene and that I was a
Lutheran seminary student, soon to become a Lutheran pastor.
Truckers, bikers, and ex-convicts smile at me a lot more than,
say, investment bankers do. I smiled back, and then returned
my glance to the blue sky above, becoming lost in the thought
of the outrageous out- there- ness of space. The beauty of our
sky is really just a nice way for the earth to protect us from the
terror of whats so vast and unknowable beyond. The bound-
lessness of the universe is disturbing when you think about it.
Its too big and were too small. Suddenly, in that moment, all
I could think was: What the hell am I doing? Seminary? Seri-
ously? With a universe this vast and unknowable, what are
the odds that this story of Jesus is true? Come on, Nadia. Its
a fucking fairy tale.
And in the very next moment I thought this: Except that
throughout my life, Ive experienced it to be true.
I once heard someone say that my belief in Jesus makes them
suspect that I intellectually suck my thumb at night. But I can-
not pretend, as much as sometimes I would like to, that I have
not throughout my life experienced the redeeming, destabiliz-
ing love of a surprising God. Even when my mind protests, I
FALL 2005 XVI I
still cant deny my experiences. This thing is real to me. Some-
times I experience God when someone speaks the truth to me,
sometimes in the moments when I admit I am wrong, some-
times in the loving of someone unlovable, sometimes in rec-
onciliation that feels like it comes from somewhere outside of
myself, but almost always when I experience God it comes in
the form of some kind of death and resurrection.
The mystery of the universe (the same universe that some-
times still makes me wonder what the hell Im doing and that
maybe this really is a fairy tale) was created by God. And God
chose to reveal who God is by slipping into skin and walking
among us as Jesus. And the love and grace and mercy of Jesus
was so offensive to us that we killed him. The night before
this happened Jesus gathered with some real fuck- ups, held up
bread and said take and eat; this is my body for you. And then
he went to the cross. But death could not contain God. God
said yes to all of our polite no thank yous by rising from
the dead. Death and resurrection. It is the Christian story as it
has been told to me, starting with Mary Magdalene, the rst
one to tell it; and as it has been conrmed in my experience.
I have only my confession confession of my own real bro-
kenness and confession of my own real faith to offer in the
chapters that follow. My story is not entirely chronological
time often folds in on itself throughout the book but rather,
its thematic. It is about the development of my faith, the
expression of my faith, and the community of my faith. And
it is the story of how I have experienced this Jesus thing to be
true. How the Christian faith, while wildly misrepresented in
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd xvi 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
XVI I NTRODUCTI ON
well meaning, are facile. It can only be experienced. And on
that fall day, it lled every inch of sky, only occasionally punc-
tuated by a uffy, little Bob Ross cloud.
The sky was so gorgeous that I rolled down all my win-
dows and leaned forward to try to see more of it out of my
windshield. A trucker next to me winked and eyed my tat-
tooed arms unaware, Im certain, that the big tattoo cover-
ing my forearm was of Saint Mary Magdalene and that I was a
Lutheran seminary student, soon to become a Lutheran pastor.
Truckers, bikers, and ex-convicts smile at me a lot more than,
say, investment bankers do. I smiled back, and then returned
my glance to the blue sky above, becoming lost in the thought
of the outrageous out- there- ness of space. The beauty of our
sky is really just a nice way for the earth to protect us from the
terror of whats so vast and unknowable beyond. The bound-
lessness of the universe is disturbing when you think about it.
Its too big and were too small. Suddenly, in that moment, all
I could think was: What the hell am I doing? Seminary? Seri-
ously? With a universe this vast and unknowable, what are
the odds that this story of Jesus is true? Come on, Nadia. Its
a fucking fairy tale.
And in the very next moment I thought this: Except that
throughout my life, Ive experienced it to be true.
I once heard someone say that my belief in Jesus makes them
suspect that I intellectually suck my thumb at night. But I can-
not pretend, as much as sometimes I would like to, that I have
not throughout my life experienced the redeeming, destabiliz-
ing love of a surprising God. Even when my mind protests, I
FALL 2005 XVI I
still cant deny my experiences. This thing is real to me. Some-
times I experience God when someone speaks the truth to me,
sometimes in the moments when I admit I am wrong, some-
times in the loving of someone unlovable, sometimes in rec-
onciliation that feels like it comes from somewhere outside of
myself, but almost always when I experience God it comes in
the form of some kind of death and resurrection.
The mystery of the universe (the same universe that some-
times still makes me wonder what the hell Im doing and that
maybe this really is a fairy tale) was created by God. And God
chose to reveal who God is by slipping into skin and walking
among us as Jesus. And the love and grace and mercy of Jesus
was so offensive to us that we killed him. The night before
this happened Jesus gathered with some real fuck- ups, held up
bread and said take and eat; this is my body for you. And then
he went to the cross. But death could not contain God. God
said yes to all of our polite no thank yous by rising from
the dead. Death and resurrection. It is the Christian story as it
has been told to me, starting with Mary Magdalene, the rst
one to tell it; and as it has been conrmed in my experience.
I have only my confession confession of my own real bro-
kenness and confession of my own real faith to offer in the
chapters that follow. My story is not entirely chronological
time often folds in on itself throughout the book but rather,
its thematic. It is about the development of my faith, the
expression of my faith, and the community of my faith. And
it is the story of how I have experienced this Jesus thing to be
true. How the Christian faith, while wildly misrepresented in
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd xvii 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
XVI I I I NTRODUCTI ON
so much of American culture, is really about death and resur-
rection. Its about how God continues to reach into the graves
we dig for ourselves and pull us out, giving us new life, in ways
both dramatic and small. This faith helped me get sober, and
it helped me (is helping me) forgive the fundamentalism of my
Church of Christ upbringing, and it helps me to not always
have to be right.
Smiley TV preachers might tell you that following Jesus is
about being good so that God will bless you with cash and
prizes, but really its much more gruesome and meaningful.
Its about spiritual physics. Something has to die for something
new to live.
Death and resurrection the recurring experience of see-
ing the emptiness, weeping over our inability to ll it or even
understand it, and then listening to the sound of God speaking
our names and telling Gods story is a messy business. But
its my business, and its the most beautiful thing I could tell
you about.
Early on the rst day of the week, WHILE IT WAS
STILL DARK, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw
that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran
and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one
whom Jesus loved, and said to them, They have taken
the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they
have laid him. . . . But Mary stood weeping outside the
tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb;
and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body
of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at
the feet. They said to her, Woman, why are you weep-
ing? She said to them, They have taken away my Lord,
and I do not know where they have laid him. When she
had said this, she turned round and saw Jesus standing
there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said
to her, Woman, why are you weeping? For whom are
you looking? Supposing him to be the gardener, she said
to him, Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where
you have laid him, and I will take him away. Jesus said
to her, Mary! She turned and said to him in Hebrew,
Rabbouni! (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her,
Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended
to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, I
am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God
and your God. Mary Magdalene went and announced
to the disciples, I have seen the Lord; and she told them
that he had said these things to her.
WHILE IT WAS
STILL DARK
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd xviii 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
C HA P T E R 1
The Rowing Team
Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of
Heaven.
Matthew 5:3
D uring my early years of sobriety, I spent most Monday
nights in a smoke- lled parish hall with some friends who were
also sober alcoholics, drinking bad coffee. Pictures of the Virgin
Mary looked down on us, as prayer and despair and cigarette
smoke and hope rose to the ceiling. We were a cranky bunch
whose lives were in various states of repair. There was Candace,
a suburban housewife who was high on heroin for her debutante
ball; Stan the depressive poet, self- deprecating and soulful; and
Bob the retired lawyer who had been sober since before Jesus
was born, but for some reason still looked a little bit homeless.
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd 3 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
THE ROWI NG TEAM 5
different things challenging in life. Speaking in front of hun-
dreds of people was far less challenging for me than schedul-
ing dental appointments.
It was almost effortless for me to do comedy, because
the underside was where I felt at home there, everything is
marinated in irony and sarcasm until ready to be grilled and
handed to a naked emperor. I got regular comedy work, but
never went far in the comedy world for several reasons. First,
it was because I tended to make the other comics laugh more
often than actual audiences, whom I held in contempt (and
maybe thats why). Then there was the fact that I wasnt driven
to succeed: As soon as it became an effort, I backed off. But
the most important reason comedy didnt work for me was
that I became healthier and just wasnt that funny anymore.
Less miserable = less funny. In the process of becoming sober
and trying to rely on God and be honest about my shortcom-
ings, I became willing to show vulnerabilities. This made me
easy prey in a comedy club greenroom, which is basically a
hotbed of emotional Darwinism, so it wasnt a place I really
wanted to spend a whole lot of my free time. In other ways,
hanging out with comics could be kind of great. Next to most
of them I was the picture of mental health. I befriended and
by befriended I mean occasionally slept with a wiry- haired,
gregarious comic named PJ who had a keen, albeit incredibly
perverted, mind. PJ was one of those guys who wasnt exactly
GQ material, foregoing well- cut jeans for a regrettable combi-
nation of baggy shorts, button- down shirts, and sport sandals.
4 PASTRI X
We talked about God and anger, resentment and forgiveness
all punctuated with profanity. We werent a ship of fools so
much as a rowboat of idiots. A little rowing team, paddling
furiously, sometimes for each other, sometimes for ourselves;
and when one of us jumped ship, wed all have to paddle
harder.
In 1992, when I started hanging out with the rowing
team, as I began to call them, I was working at a downtown
club as a standup comic. I was broken and trying to become
xed and only a few months sober. I couldnt afford therapy,
so being paid to be caustic and cynical on stage seemed the
next best thing. Plus, Im funny when Im miserable.
This isnt exactly uncommon. If you were to gather all the
worlds comics and then remove all the alcoholics, cocaine
addicts, and manic depressives youd have left . . . well . . . Carrot
Top, basically. Theres something about courting the darkness
that makes some people see the truth in raw, twisted ways, as
though they were shining a black light on life to illuminate the
absurdity of it all. Comics tell a truth you can see only from
the underside of the psyche. At its best, comedy is prophesy
and societal dream interpretation. At its worst its just dick
jokes.
When I was working as a comic, normal noncomic people
would often say, Wow, I dont know how you can get up in
front of all those people with just a microphone. To which
I would reply, Wow, I dont know how you can balance
your checkbook and get up for work each day. We all nd
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd 4 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
THE ROWI NG TEAM 5
different things challenging in life. Speaking in front of hun-
dreds of people was far less challenging for me than schedul-
ing dental appointments.
It was almost effortless for me to do comedy, because
the underside was where I felt at home there, everything is
marinated in irony and sarcasm until ready to be grilled and
handed to a naked emperor. I got regular comedy work, but
never went far in the comedy world for several reasons. First,
it was because I tended to make the other comics laugh more
often than actual audiences, whom I held in contempt (and
maybe thats why). Then there was the fact that I wasnt driven
to succeed: As soon as it became an effort, I backed off. But
the most important reason comedy didnt work for me was
that I became healthier and just wasnt that funny anymore.
Less miserable = less funny. In the process of becoming sober
and trying to rely on God and be honest about my shortcom-
ings, I became willing to show vulnerabilities. This made me
easy prey in a comedy club greenroom, which is basically a
hotbed of emotional Darwinism, so it wasnt a place I really
wanted to spend a whole lot of my free time. In other ways,
hanging out with comics could be kind of great. Next to most
of them I was the picture of mental health. I befriended and
by befriended I mean occasionally slept with a wiry- haired,
gregarious comic named PJ who had a keen, albeit incredibly
perverted, mind. PJ was one of those guys who wasnt exactly
GQ material, foregoing well- cut jeans for a regrettable combi-
nation of baggy shorts, button- down shirts, and sport sandals.
4 PASTRI X
We talked about God and anger, resentment and forgiveness
all punctuated with profanity. We werent a ship of fools so
much as a rowboat of idiots. A little rowing team, paddling
furiously, sometimes for each other, sometimes for ourselves;
and when one of us jumped ship, wed all have to paddle
harder.
In 1992, when I started hanging out with the rowing
team, as I began to call them, I was working at a downtown
club as a standup comic. I was broken and trying to become
xed and only a few months sober. I couldnt afford therapy,
so being paid to be caustic and cynical on stage seemed the
next best thing. Plus, Im funny when Im miserable.
This isnt exactly uncommon. If you were to gather all the
worlds comics and then remove all the alcoholics, cocaine
addicts, and manic depressives youd have left . . . well . . . Carrot
Top, basically. Theres something about courting the darkness
that makes some people see the truth in raw, twisted ways, as
though they were shining a black light on life to illuminate the
absurdity of it all. Comics tell a truth you can see only from
the underside of the psyche. At its best, comedy is prophesy
and societal dream interpretation. At its worst its just dick
jokes.
When I was working as a comic, normal noncomic people
would often say, Wow, I dont know how you can get up in
front of all those people with just a microphone. To which
I would reply, Wow, I dont know how you can balance
your checkbook and get up for work each day. We all nd
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd 5 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
THE ROWI NG TEAM 7
self- absorbed than you already are, so . . . He ended most of
his sentences with so . . . as if we all knew how to ll in the
next blank; if he were to do it for us it wouldnt be as funny.
He was someone I wanted to be around, as if his juju would
rub off, making me witty and smart and likable like him.
Comedy clubs are closed on Monday nights, but PJs house
was open for Texas Holdem after our rowing team meetings.
Im pretty sure that when he got sober and removed booze
from the equation, he just added extra women and poker and
comedy. Mondays at PJs became a dark carnival of comics,
recovering alcoholics, and comics who were recovering alco-
holics. Rounds of poker went late into the night, but competi-
tive wit was where the real points were scored. Whenever I
could, I would shove aside the inevitable pile of PJs dirty mag-
azines on the piano bench and sit myself down for a few hours
of belly laughing, which was well worth the twenty- ve dol-
lars I always lost to them in the process.
Still, underneath the academic success, the adoring com-
edy club audiences, the many women, and loads of friends,
was something corrosive. Eating away at our friend PJ,
over the course of a decade, was a force or illness or demon
that had staked a corner of PJs mind, and like the Red Army,
marched determinedly, claiming more and more territory
each day.
PJ was loved by a lot of people who had no idea how to
help him. The rowing team watched over his nal years, as
his mental illness was tugged and pulled by modern pharma-
cology but never cured. Hed show up less and less often on
6 PASTRI X
He had a distinctly feral quality about him that made him seem
a bit canine. Despite his almost total lack of style, PJ managed
to have a really full social life. He loved women and life and
booze and girlie magazines and poker and comedy, not neces-
sarily in that order.
He was also completing his PhD in communications while
doing standup, which was made just a tad difcult by his
aforementioned vices. One day, I invited him to the rowing
team, and he remained a faithful member for the next eight
years, often hosting the postmeeting poker games at his house.
If you didnt know PJ well, he didnt seem all that smart,
but underneath his foul-mouthed rants was a stunning intel-
lect. His was one of the more lthy acts in Denver, without a
lot of highbrow content. He played stupid on stage and he was
brilliant at it. I called PJ up once to see how his dissertation
was coming along. Great, he said, but no one realizes Im
living in my ofce at the school.
PJ was like one of those cloth dolls with long skirts that
you turn upside down and pull the skirt up and its no lon-
ger granny, but the big bad wolf. The right- side-up doll is a
foul- mouthed simpleton, ipped over, a PhD in communica-
tions. The right- side-up doll is the fun- loving and charismatic
host of a weekly poker game, ipped over, a non- functioning
depressive.
PJ was a natural addition to the rowing team, and he infused
the meetings with hilarious dark rants. I wanted to kill myself
this morning, PJ would say, but I thought how much Id hate
providing all you fuckers with a reason to become even more
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd 6 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
THE ROWI NG TEAM 7
self- absorbed than you already are, so . . . He ended most of
his sentences with so . . . as if we all knew how to ll in the
next blank; if he were to do it for us it wouldnt be as funny.
He was someone I wanted to be around, as if his juju would
rub off, making me witty and smart and likable like him.
Comedy clubs are closed on Monday nights, but PJs house
was open for Texas Holdem after our rowing team meetings.
Im pretty sure that when he got sober and removed booze
from the equation, he just added extra women and poker and
comedy. Mondays at PJs became a dark carnival of comics,
recovering alcoholics, and comics who were recovering alco-
holics. Rounds of poker went late into the night, but competi-
tive wit was where the real points were scored. Whenever I
could, I would shove aside the inevitable pile of PJs dirty mag-
azines on the piano bench and sit myself down for a few hours
of belly laughing, which was well worth the twenty- ve dol-
lars I always lost to them in the process.
Still, underneath the academic success, the adoring com-
edy club audiences, the many women, and loads of friends,
was something corrosive. Eating away at our friend PJ,
over the course of a decade, was a force or illness or demon
that had staked a corner of PJs mind, and like the Red Army,
marched determinedly, claiming more and more territory
each day.
PJ was loved by a lot of people who had no idea how to
help him. The rowing team watched over his nal years, as
his mental illness was tugged and pulled by modern pharma-
cology but never cured. Hed show up less and less often on
6 PASTRI X
He had a distinctly feral quality about him that made him seem
a bit canine. Despite his almost total lack of style, PJ managed
to have a really full social life. He loved women and life and
booze and girlie magazines and poker and comedy, not neces-
sarily in that order.
He was also completing his PhD in communications while
doing standup, which was made just a tad difcult by his
aforementioned vices. One day, I invited him to the rowing
team, and he remained a faithful member for the next eight
years, often hosting the postmeeting poker games at his house.
If you didnt know PJ well, he didnt seem all that smart,
but underneath his foul-mouthed rants was a stunning intel-
lect. His was one of the more lthy acts in Denver, without a
lot of highbrow content. He played stupid on stage and he was
brilliant at it. I called PJ up once to see how his dissertation
was coming along. Great, he said, but no one realizes Im
living in my ofce at the school.
PJ was like one of those cloth dolls with long skirts that
you turn upside down and pull the skirt up and its no lon-
ger granny, but the big bad wolf. The right- side-up doll is a
foul- mouthed simpleton, ipped over, a PhD in communica-
tions. The right- side-up doll is the fun- loving and charismatic
host of a weekly poker game, ipped over, a non- functioning
depressive.
PJ was a natural addition to the rowing team, and he infused
the meetings with hilarious dark rants. I wanted to kill myself
this morning, PJ would say, but I thought how much Id hate
providing all you fuckers with a reason to become even more
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd 7 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
THE ROWI NG TEAM 9
The memorial service took place on a crisp fall day at the
Comedy Works club in downtown Denver, with a full house.
The alcoholic rowing team and the Denver comics, the com-
edy club staff and the academics: These were my people. Giv-
ing PJs eulogy, I realized that perhaps I was supposed to be
their pastor.
Its not that I felt pious and nurturing. Its that there, in
that underground room lled with the smell of stale beer and
bad jokes, I looked around and saw more pain and questions
and loss than anyone, including myself, knew what to do with.
And I saw God. God, right there with the comics standing
along the wall with crossed arms, as if their snarky remarks
to each other would keep those embarrassing emotions away.
God, right there with the woman climbing down the stage
stairs after sharing a little too much about PJ being a hot
date. God, among the cynics and alcoholics and queers.
I am not the only one who sees the underside and God at
the same time. There are lots of us, and we are at home in
the biblical stories of antiheroes and people who dont get
it; beloved prostitutes and rough shermen. How different
from that cast of characters could a manic- depressive alco-
holic comic be? It was here in the midst of my own commu-
nity of underside dwellers that I couldnt help but begin to see
the Gospel, the life- changing reality that God is not far off,
but here among the brokenness of our lives. And having seen
it, I couldnt help but point it out. For reasons Ill never quite
understand, I realized that I had been called to proclaim the
8 PASTRI X
Monday nights, and each time he would be skinnier. It was as
though his body began to follow his mind and spirit, which
were slowly leaving. He stopped returning our calls.
Several days before he hanged himself, PJ called me. He
wanted me to pray for him. It had been ten years since Id met
PJ, and I had since returned to Christianity. I think I was the
only religious person he knew. He wondered about God: Was
he beyond the pale of Gods love? Throwing all my coolness
and sarcasm aside, I prayed for him over the phone. I asked
that he feel the very real and always available love of God. I
prayed that he would know, without reservation, that he was
a beloved child of God. Im sure I said a bunch of other stuff,
too. I wanted to be able to cast out this demon that had hold
of our PJ, possessing him, telling him lies, and keeping out the
light of Gods love.
A week and a half later, I was sitting in a huge lecture hall at
CU Boulder (where, as a thirty- ve- year- old, married mother
of two, I was nishing up my undergraduate degree), when my
cell phone rang. I rushed outside, the cold air making my eyes
water.
Sean, fellow comic and rower said, Nadia. Its, um . . . PJ,
honey.
Shit, I said.
Im sorry, Sean said. We were all sorry. Can you do his
service?
This is how I was called to ministry. My main qualica-
tion? I was the religious one.
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd 8 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
THE ROWI NG TEAM 9
The memorial service took place on a crisp fall day at the
Comedy Works club in downtown Denver, with a full house.
The alcoholic rowing team and the Denver comics, the com-
edy club staff and the academics: These were my people. Giv-
ing PJs eulogy, I realized that perhaps I was supposed to be
their pastor.
Its not that I felt pious and nurturing. Its that there, in
that underground room lled with the smell of stale beer and
bad jokes, I looked around and saw more pain and questions
and loss than anyone, including myself, knew what to do with.
And I saw God. God, right there with the comics standing
along the wall with crossed arms, as if their snarky remarks
to each other would keep those embarrassing emotions away.
God, right there with the woman climbing down the stage
stairs after sharing a little too much about PJ being a hot
date. God, among the cynics and alcoholics and queers.
I am not the only one who sees the underside and God at
the same time. There are lots of us, and we are at home in
the biblical stories of antiheroes and people who dont get
it; beloved prostitutes and rough shermen. How different
from that cast of characters could a manic- depressive alco-
holic comic be? It was here in the midst of my own commu-
nity of underside dwellers that I couldnt help but begin to see
the Gospel, the life- changing reality that God is not far off,
but here among the brokenness of our lives. And having seen
it, I couldnt help but point it out. For reasons Ill never quite
understand, I realized that I had been called to proclaim the
8 PASTRI X
Monday nights, and each time he would be skinnier. It was as
though his body began to follow his mind and spirit, which
were slowly leaving. He stopped returning our calls.
Several days before he hanged himself, PJ called me. He
wanted me to pray for him. It had been ten years since Id met
PJ, and I had since returned to Christianity. I think I was the
only religious person he knew. He wondered about God: Was
he beyond the pale of Gods love? Throwing all my coolness
and sarcasm aside, I prayed for him over the phone. I asked
that he feel the very real and always available love of God. I
prayed that he would know, without reservation, that he was
a beloved child of God. Im sure I said a bunch of other stuff,
too. I wanted to be able to cast out this demon that had hold
of our PJ, possessing him, telling him lies, and keeping out the
light of Gods love.
A week and a half later, I was sitting in a huge lecture hall at
CU Boulder (where, as a thirty- ve- year- old, married mother
of two, I was nishing up my undergraduate degree), when my
cell phone rang. I rushed outside, the cold air making my eyes
water.
Sean, fellow comic and rower said, Nadia. Its, um . . . PJ,
honey.
Shit, I said.
Im sorry, Sean said. We were all sorry. Can you do his
service?
This is how I was called to ministry. My main qualica-
tion? I was the religious one.
Pastrix_TPtextF1.indd 9 7/2/14 9:38:05 PM
C HA P T E R 2
Gods Aunt
Let a woman learn in silence with full submission. I permit no
woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep
silent.
1 Timothy 2:11-12
Twenty - ve years before I would preside at a comedy club
funeral, I got baptized. It was a Sunday in the spring of 1981,
and I was wearing white sandals. The preacher, in his denim-
colored polyester suit, had wound down his sermon and had
given an altar call. If you are ready to make your life right with
the Lord or if you desire to be baptized, come forward now as
we stand and sing.
The people stood and sang, and I walked down the aisle
toward the pastor. Another man handed me a card and golf pen-
cil as I sat on the padded pew. After I checked the box indicating
10 PASTRI X
Gospel from the place where I am, and proclaim where I am
from the Gospel.
What had started in early sobriety as a reluctant willing-
ness to start praying again had led to my returning to Christi-
anity, and now had led to something even more preposterous: I
was called to be a pastor to my people.
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