Anniversary of Ordination—50 Years of Holy Trouble, August 24, 2025
The odds were against this. Monumentally against this day, this place, this commemoration, this configuration of people ever coming together. Here.
How does a girl who started her life on a 20-acre fruit farm outside the teeny-tiny town of Baroda, Michigan, where most everyone my age were, like me, the grandchildren of immigrants from Eastern Europe with parents who were farmers, mechanics, factory workers, homemakers—and generally kind of higher education averse—How does such a person raised Catholic in the 1950’s and once, at the age of 5, asked by a jovial uncle at a family gathering, what she wanted to be when I grew up unhesitatingly responded, “A priest,” silencing all conversation. How did that that child wind up with “Rev.” and “Dr.” in front of her name? What are the odds? Life is full of surprises.
Although my horizons seemed limited, my parents lived an ethic of hospitality—offering welcome to anyone who showed up; my father’s factory job brought him into contact and camaraderie with people beyond Baroda. Unknown to any of us, this set me up for a future utterly unimagined. As I set off for Michigan State University—which is what my high school guidance counselor saw as suitable for the class valedictorian because it had a great home ec department—there were no odds available—nothing on the books—for the turns my life would take, for the higher education that pursued me as I took part in movements for justice and peace, all the while hearing stories of faith and commitment from traditions, perspectives, and geographic settings that were new to me, as I was received with hospitality listening deeply, hearing that all people are created in the image and likeness of God, and that when one member of the body hurts, the whole body hurts; when one rejoices, all rejoice. “What a covenant, what a joy divine.” I was all ears hearing this. All ears—and, eventually, some mouth.
I joined the United Church of Christ and was greeted with hospitality, seen and accepted as who I was and nudged and goaded to become more of who I was. Let me note to you who are not familiar with this denomination that the United Church of Christ (UCC), can be described as culturally diverse, socially progressive, non-hierarchical, and theologically all over the map. Our unity is never unanimity. We work at holding all our of independent and disparate voices in a creative tension as we care for one another and the wider world.
After I retired from ministry I carried around three different business cards. One read, “Mary Susan Gast, Poet | Human Rights Advocate.” The other two gave my full-bore title, “The Rev. Dr. Mary Susan Gast” along with either “Conference Minister / Bishop Emerita” or “Chair, National Ecumenical-Interfaith Forum for Filipino Concerns.”
These days as a poet, theologian, ordained minister, and human rights advocate I find it increasingly difficult and immaterial to differentiate among those identities. All are tied together. Each is an expression of the other. All come from the same place in my heart. Each reveals a common set of attitudes: concern with the human condition; looking below the surface of events for deeper meaning; respect for the power of shared stories and images to break down isolation, expand imagination, generate compassion, and connect us one to another.
On my 40th birthday—half a lifetime ago, in 1985—I was subjected to a surprise party. Roger and I were serving as the pastors of an inner-city church in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Chuck and Mary Jo Burpee were new members of the congregation. They invited us and daughter Susannah over for dinner one evening in late October with the understanding that our children would play afterwards while the grownups discussed serious church-y matters.
We were just about to get into the Häagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream when the doorbell rang. Chuck answered the door and then called me over saying that there was someone asking for me. How could they be asking for me? Nobody knows I’m here. Puzzled, I went to the door and there before me on the neat green lawn I beheld a most unlikely collection of people. There were very old people and very young people. Some were black, some white, some brown. Many were well-dressed in North American style; some were clothed quite shabbily; several wore cloth from Ethiopia; a few wore Potawatomie headbands. One carried a baby; one leaned on a cane. My first reaction was, “What is this mob doing here in Chuck and Mary Jo’s front yard?!” Then I blinked and it all came into focus. This was no mob! This was my congregation. “Surprise!” they all shouted.
So many surprises. So many people—so many present at the 50th anniversary—who called me out and called on me and pushed and shoved me and put up with me [Roger] as I took my next steps along a path that just keeps unfolding, who kept me company and brought me joy and brought me here, and are still here with me.
The odds were against all this. And I took heart from this gathering in 2025 at a moment in our history as a nation when the odds seem to be stacking up and locking together against any vision of beloved community, any living out of Jesus’ commandment to his ragtag followers that “you love one another as I have loved you,” any wisp of “liberty and justice for all.” As I looked around at this beautiful improbable gathering, my hope was restored. I knew, I remembered, I trusted in this living testimony that the collective pursuit of the reign of justice, mercy, and love has always colluded to beat the odds.
Mary Susan Gast