A Call to Slowdown

On March 30, 2017, I wrote a caption under a picture I posted of me preaching my very first public sermon in James Chapel at Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York. The sermon was entitled, “I Have an Issue of Blood.” To my surprise, at the end of my moment of sermonic exploration – what was originally supposed to be a spoken word piece but quickly grew into something beyond my wildest imagination – I got a standing ovation. It was…odd. I thought to myself, “Why are these people standing and clapping for me? I’m not a preacher.” Folks came up to me after to convey their appreciation for the message. Someone in the congregation shared a picture they took of me. I posted it on Instagram and Facebook the next day with the caption:

“I sometimes feel like there's a person running ahead of me—the person that God is calling me to be—and I'm running behind her trying to catch up as she runs faster and faster. And I don't know where's she's going but I know it's somewhere great. And I'm just tryna make it into her shadow...”

In a blog I wrote later that year that described the deep depression I was in following my fumbling into preaching by accident, I conveyed that I never thought ministry would be easy; however, I simply wasn’t prepared for the disruption of my ecosystem. It’s been seven and a half years since I started preaching by accident and I still feel like I’m running to catch up with myself—with a hologram version of myself—with this person named Reverend/Pastor/Minister who has taken off without me. So much has happened so quickly. It feels like I blinked twice and was leading a whole church! (lol! Who let that happen?)

2024 has brought much opportunity and discovery. I list these many engagements not because I desire praise. Many of these engagements had no Canva flyer or other marketing attached to them. My commitment to these endeavors was not about money. I simply believe that the work of the people—the liturgy—must extend outward beyond the insular walls of a singular church building or community. Public witness is important to me. Communal witness across the lines of faith traditions, denominations, and even religious beliefs, is important to me. I am grateful for the ways people have spoken my name into rooms. I’m honored that I was many people’s first choice (turn to your neighbor and say, “first choice!” lol) in an industry where those who look like me, talk like me, got body art like me are often an afterthought.

This list is not all-inclusive. It doesn’t include the many protests and demonstrations I’ve participated in—some of which remain off-the-record for many reasons. It doesn’t include weddings and funerals, the unexpected times I’ve had to assist with a mental health crisis, or my regular preaching and administrative responsibilities connected to the church that I pastor.

I’m grateful for all things and I’m slowing down.

I’m slowing down not because I lack the individual skills or stamina. I’m slowing down because I lack sustainable infrastructure—personally and professionally—to support this level of work. In the quickness with which Reverend/Pastor Mia M. McClain took off running out of the starting blocks and never looked back, Mia Michelle—the person within—did not have (or take) enough time to build the sustainable infrastructure needed to support the work and the life. Trailblazing, albeit praiseworthy, is exhausting. One is literally building a new reality—a new world—while one is existing in the thick of what was. Many of us womxn-folk and folk of other and all marginalized groups often enter spaces that have been bankrupt in some shape or form, either via dwindling human resources or precarious financial realities. And we are brought in as almost an act of resuscitation. “Can these bones live?” becomes our driving force as we endeavor to see if life is possible in the rubble of remains. [I have a sermon on that]

One must have sustainable infrastructure to support the work of seeing if the bones can live—of being a part of the laying of the sinews and flesh on what had decayed, of convincing those who’ve been exiled that God will bring them out alive and place them on their own soil. One needs sustainable infrastructure, not just a day at the spa or a conference. Every poor person in this country will tell you that the one-offs (turkey drives, back-to-school drives) don’t actually transform their conditions long-term (though not wholly unnecessary). There needs to be consistent financial and human support to transform the conditions of our living together. Thus, a leader must build their bench. [I have a sermon on that too]

Building your bench is hard in a time when capitalism has all but killed capacity and concentration. 

In a society where social capital has been on the decline since the 80s (read Bowling Alone by Robert D. Putnam) and many social and service organizations that remain struggle to maintain engagement with donors and volunteers, building anything requires a full court press. We are also in a time when people in helping professionals are burning out more quickly than ever before. Teachers, nurses, pastors, social workers, and beyond are leaving their careers in droves. I do not desire to leave. Thus, I am slowing down. I hate that I must slowdown in this way because I love my prophetic and creative practices.

This is not an indictment on any particular person or group of people. Perhaps, it is an impeachment—a process by which we bring charges on the systems of thinking and practice that are crumbling around and upon us.

I write this epistle? because I intend to survive (thank you Octavia E. Butler). I want you to survive, too. I want us to survive, and I refuse to repeat the practices of predecessors that promoted silence around the thing instead of vulnerability and transparency that might inspire and cultivate creativity in the midst of the valley of death. I am slowing down so that I might creatively resource myself and build what I need to survive and thrive.

May it be so.