The Cross and the Pastor’s Kid

I grew up in Ministry…literally. My earliest memories were created against the backdrop of church. As a young couple, my parents answered the call to serve while raising three little girls, and by the time I hit high school I was a fully-fledged PK, or Pastor’s Kid. We were a part of many churches over the years, before my parents founded their own work in Montclair, Durban.

My parents were passionate about God and gave themselves entirely to serving people. Yes, they had their own personal wars to fight, but when it came to God, there was no compromise. They would often leave home late at night when members of our congregation would call in distress and only return in the early hours of the morning with just enough time to get ready for work. We were accustomed to the midnight phone call from a frantic father or sobbing wife. Some days my mom and dad would grab a quick cup of tea and a sandwich before heading out to counsel with families in need. I remember their hushed talks in the morning about rescuing runaway children from drug-dens and calming violent domestic disputes. As children, we were never bitter about their time spent away from home, because we believed that they were on a heavenly mission. 

We often heard people talk about our parents. Many were grateful for their help and praised their efforts in trying to restore their broken homes or broken marriages. However, as children, we were also acutely aware of the pew politics that simmered beneath the surface. There were those who complimented in public, but criticised in private spaces. Those clique-type Christians who talked in Christian clichés like, ‘Oh bless you sister, yes God is good’, but would also be heard saying, ‘did you see that dress, how can the pastor allow his wife to show her knees!’ This group seemed to believe they were infallible, while everybody else, particularly the pastor and his family, were deserving of their ceaseless judgement. 

I know this only because, as children, we were ignored. So I would be standing within earshot of their fire and brimstone and they wouldn’t even notice me. When we were eventually old enough to be seen by the Pharisitical group, it was only to earn their disdain. ‘Her hair is too short! Her dress is too tight…Pastors’ children are the worse ones’, they would complain, sometimes to our face. It didn’t help that I had a unique built compared to the other girls in our community. I was skinny to the bone with a protruding behind. In those days, being generous around the rear wasn’t a compliment; it was an object of scorn. I was often teased, and irrespective of how I dressed, I was always picked on. It didn’t matter what I wore, if the outline of my southern regions were visible, I was given a talking to by the motherly sorts in our church. I seldom, if ever, spoke about those interactions. I did however internalise it until it made me self-conscious and unsure of my own body. Little changed when I became an adult and gained a few considerable kilos, but that’s a story for a different day!

Yes, it was difficult trying to keep up with the mountain of expectations laid at our feet as the Pastor’s children, and I understand why other PK’s stumbled along the journey. In reality many children of ministers turn away from church and even the faith because of the intense pressure they face. People are quick to dismiss their own children’s wilful disobedience and rebellion as growing pains, hormones or chalk it up to a teenage phase…but as PK’s you were expected to be robotic and perfect.  It was considered diabolical if you had a difference of opinion and heaven forbid you had a meltdown! Pastors were and still are admonished and judged if their children ever make a mistake. 

It was also a mammoth task making friends. Children in church don’t always want to hang around the Pastor’s kid, in case you tell on them. ‘Hey shush, pastor’s daughter is coming!’ they would stage-whisper when they see you coming. 

Amid all this, what was most disheartening was watching how ministry at times hurt my parents. Don’t get me wrong, my parents were loved. They were the kind of people that others gravitated to. They were ethical, fair and selfless pastors. They were not insecure or abusive and they drew even the hardest hearts in with love and acceptance. But church and ministry is open to all kinds of people and we were taught that being in leadership meant having to also embrace those who seemed to take pleasure in constant complaining, judging and contention. I could never understand how my parents could easily forgive when their good intentions were taken out of context. I was often annoyed when after having given all that they possibly could, people still felt entitled to more. My parents never shared their burdens with us, but we knew. We could easily tell. And for a short time in my teenage years, I wondered if I ever wanted to be in ministry too. 

The answer to my questions about ministry came when I was thrust into teaching Sunday school in Cato Manor. The sprawling community was riddled with drugs, alcoholism, domestic abuse and crime. My parents spent hours on end working with families there and the senior pastor asked me to take on Sunday school. I was hardly even fourteen years old, but I had a good grasp of biblical principles and was an avid Bible student, thanks to my dad. At that age I had already read the Holy Book cover to cover and was starting to study the gospels on my own. 

I took on the call, and within the first three months saw the class grow from six to forty! This was largely due to the field evangelism my parents had undertaken. I started buying stationary and snacks and was even making my own charts. We were crammed into a small room and resources were few, but we soldiered on. 

It was Palm Sunday and the children were excited about the palm leaves that decorated the building. I had passed around a packets of cheese favoured chips and as they were settling on the carpeted floor for story time. I animatedly told them about Jesus, the King of Kings, riding on a lowly colt into Jerusalem as the crowds sang hosanna and threw down their cloaks and palm leaves to pave His way into the Holy City. I also told them that a week later, many of those who cried hosanna would demand that Jesus be crucified. I explained how Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss and Peter denied the Lord three times. The children gasped in horror and indignation, ‘But how could they do that ma’am’ they innocently asked. They could not comprehend such treachery. ‘So what did Jesus do’, asked a little boy in the back of the class with his cheesy chip suspended in the air. 

‘Jesus said, father forgive them for they know not what they do’

The words rung in my own head as I delved into the love of God. ‘Jesus loved them anyway…even when they didn’t love him back. That’s what makes the cross a special place in that God didn’t wait for us to be perfect, he took our imperfections on him so that we can be better…He knew he needed to be crucified so that everybody, even those who rejected him, would have a chance to believe and be saved’

Isn’t that the reality of the love of the God? That while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. In that class, along with the forty children, God taught me a lesson… Love them anyway. Sometimes serving in ministry means having to wash the feet of those who wilfully scorn you… It means having to love those who slander your name… It means reaching out to those who crucify your best intentions. We all have our crosses to bear, we all have shortcomings to battle…and we can all go to the cross where Christ has forgiven us…so we too should forgive.

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– Genevieve Lanka-Gann