The Many Thoughts of Wanda Kidd

I went to see my dear friend and colleague, Jack Causey, the other day.  His body is not as spry as when I last saw him, but his eyes twinkled with the same mischief and intuitive knowledge that he is famous for. People prepared me that he might not remember who I was, but immediately, he told his caregiver, this is Wanda Kidd. She was an excellent campus minister, which allowed me to tell her about his significant role in my life and to hear a part of the story that I did not know until that day.

I knew Jack as a beloved pastor of a church in the middle of our state, but more importantly, I knew he was known as a profound preacher and a willing mentor and encourager to young ministers. He was so well respected that in the 1990s, he was elected the President of the Executive Committee of the North Carolina Baptist before things were so divisive, and that was when I formally met him. 

I had traveled to Camp Caraway in central North Carolina because my name was being presented to be the Baptist campus minister at Western Carolina University.  It was not the first time I had been in the running for this position, but it was the first time it had come before the whole committee for a vote, and I was very anxious.  From the time I knew what a campus minister was, I wanted to be one, and I had done everything I could to prepare for it. As a student, I participated in leadership at the Baptist Student Union; through the encouragement of my campus minister, I attended seminary and got a master’s of religion and divinity, as well as being a campus ministry intern two times. And while I waited for a campus minister’s position to open up, I started campus groups in churches where I served.

I knew there would be a time for the committee to question me. I also knew a part of my call story was a stumbling block for many people, and it had been present each time I applied for a ministry job for the previous twenty-two years. You see, not only was I a woman seeking entry into the male-dominated world of Christian ministry in the 1990s, which was a steep hurdle in itself, but I was also a woman who had survived a damaging and dangerous short-lived marriage right after high school. So, to apply for seminary and each ministry job, I was expected to retell that story over and over again.  I had to relive that tragedy and find a way to tell it in such a way that it did not re-traumatize me while, at the same time, explaining how leaving the marriage was not just a choice but a necessity for my very survival. It was always an unspoken part of the telling that I  could not seem mean-spirited or vindictive about the very person who inflicted the pain.  It was an exercise in self-flagellation that never seemed to end.

For example, almost everyone else who applied to the Baptist seminaries of that era could do so by mailing in their application, grades, and recommendations and hearing back from admissions in a letter, but my application was handled quite differently. I had to drive five hours to campus and be placed at the end of a twelve-foot trustee table while three representatives from faculty and admissions sat at the other end, invited me to tell my story, and then drilled me about my suitability to serve. I remember them asking me, as a twenty-three-year-old, what I thought about remarriage and if I was willing to remain unmarried to be able to serve?. Fortunately, several people on the faculty had known my family for years and gave weight to my acceptance. I knew then not everyone in my situation received that leverage.

I will not belabor the amount of slights and insults I endured over the years from personnel committees, pastors, wives of pastors, and directors of missions, but I persevered because I had no choice. I developed some pretty snappy comebacks over the years because I knew those people did not instill a call in me, and while they could impact my employment, they did not determine my ministry.  A ministry that had been affirmed over and over again by those who also needed to know about God’s grace and be offered a trajectory of hope.  

I have never written about this and only made it public knowledge within the context of a relationship throughout my years in ministry. I probably would not share it now except for the stirred memory of that night at Caraway and the reality of Jack’s compassionate leadership.

As I looked around the room that evening, I, once again, felt like the room was set up for intimidation.  Tables surrounded the entire Lakeside room at Camp Caraway.  I was told that the committee of about fifty could ask me anything about my call, theology, family, or past employment. As usual, I preemptively told my story to head off anything that would make it look like I was hiding something. I talked about being eighteen and some of the things going on in my family, how the brief marriage quickly took a dark turn, and how I tried to stay, but there came a moment when I knew I was not safe. I explained that I believed if King David was a man after God’s own heart, surely God would not punish me forever for a decision made by a foolish young woman who believed that her prayers had led her to that choice so many years before.  I finished, and they asked me to step out so that they could take the vote.

As I anxiously waited, it seemed to take forever, and I thought my dreams of being a campus minister had come to the end of the road.  Finally, they came and got me, and as I re-entered, several people around the room would not make eye contact with me. I sat in the empty seat I had vacated earlier and looked across the space to where Jack Causey sat.  He said, “Wanda, I am pleased to tell you have been elected as the Baptist Campus minister at Western Carolina University. It was not unanimous, but it was decisive.

As all that washed over me, Jack continued speaking to the whole group, “And Wanda?”  “Yes,” I said, “You NEVER have to tell that story again.  It is expunged.”  Startled, I said, “While I thank you for the sentiment, I am pretty sure you cannot do that.” “ But I can, and I do.” He said.

Years later, Jack and I became colleagues on the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship of NC staff, and even then, I do not believe I adequately thanked him for that life-changing experience. I brought up that night at Caraway last week as we swapped shared stories. He recounted, “Yes, They were going round and round in the room before the vote, and I told them, if they knew you and watched your calling the way I had, they would vote, yes.” He had never told me how he had swayed the vote, but when I thanked him for that thumb on the scale, I also admitted that as skeptical as I was that night, I had never told that story regarding a committee vote again.

Oh, that we would all use our power to free people to live out who God calls them to be.