Entry In Which I Embarrass My Readership With Musings On My Unmentionables

Now that I see it posted on the blog, this picture seems less awkward

Following my post about my ministerial uniform, I felt the cleverest thing to do would be to talk about my undergarments. You're blushing a bit, I can tell.

If I can be a little candid—not a lot, mind you; just a little—I’m kind of particular about my socks and undergarments. I suppose that isn’t terribly unusual. But is what I regard as a pretty standard part of my daily dress a simple necessity? Part of me (the same part that chooses to wear the same 40 bits of clothing for Lent and then write a blog about it) wonders if my undergarments aren’t a sort of indulgence or luxury. I know, I know: you’re concerned that I’m over-analyzing my socks and undies a little bit. But friends, we’re three days into Lent, and I’m neck deep into post about a Lenten discipline that I may not have thought through entirely. Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were getting into…

 

I recall that my freshman year of college I kept asking my mother to send me more underwear until I literally had a month’s worth of boxers (thanks Mother! and Sam’s Club!), just so I wouldn’t have to do laundry as often. It should be noted that I went to a college where they do your laundry for you. It is a great day to be a Wildcat! As an aside, I love my college and for many reasons other than just its laundry service. But to be sure, the laundry service is pretty awesome. Go Wildcats!

I realize now that this picture perhaps requires some explanation...

Since I’ve lately taken literal stock of my wardrobe, it seems that I have way more socks and undergarments than anything else. And when I say that it seems like I have way more underwear and socks than any other type of clothing, what I mean is I actually have more socks and underwear than any other type of clothing. If one examines my list, one will note that slightly over half of my Lenten suitcase is boxers, underwear, and socks. Half. When I made my list a few days ago, I mandated that I had to have a week’s worth.  

Perhaps “luxury” is a bridge too far. My underwear and socks aren't fancy or expensive. In terms of fashion, I hardly give these items any thought. Mostly because people never see these bits of clothing. That, and the fact that the sock and underwear drawer always has an ample supply. And don't let's gloss over the fact that I'm talking about items that appear on practically every list of donation requests from homeless shelters and services. I don't know that I give it any thought at all except when it comes time to restock that drawer. Ironically, while I might be ambivalent at times to wearing my work uniform, but I’m hardly indecisive when it comes to socks and underwear. Likewise, in all seriousness, as I try to teach my children to be grateful to God for the many things we often take for granted--like the clothes on our backs--I'm not sure I ever have my socks and underwear in mind.

Starting Point: The Uni

"...the finely worked vestments, 

the holy vestments for the priest Aaron 

and the vestments of his sons, 

for their service as priests" (Ex 31.10)

The other day I met an acquaintance for breakfast at a local diner. I had hardly sat down before one of the waiters walking by stopped and exclaimed, “Hey, man! Are you a priest?!”

I responded, “I am!” 

To which he replied, “Awesome! God is really great!” And he strolled away.

“Does this happen to you a lot?’ my acquaintance asked with no small measure of amusement.

“Actually, almost never.”

Or it’s never that obvious, I should have said.

One can tell--or I can, at least--that I have a peculiar relationship to a part of my wardrobe vis-a-vis my job. I come from a tradition where most--not all--ordained clergy wear distinct clergy clothing. In short, I wear a uniform. Some might bristle a bit at that. Special clothes that I wear for a job is a uniform. That statement isn’t a judgment; it’s merely an observation. I don't think any less of a firefighter, police officer, soldier, sailor, pilot or marine because they wear a uniform. Plus it takes a lot of the guesswork out of dressing most mornings.

When I came up with my list of clothes, clergy shirts were at the top of the list as being either the highest necessity or the most important to my identity or both. There was no way I was going to not put clergy shirts in my Lenten luggage.

This one says, "I'm mysterious."

So far as I know, there aren’t any written rules or guidelines about how or when a clergy shirt is to be worn or not worn. Though I did find this which, even though is from a different Christian tradition than mine, does make some good and interesting points, and at least got me thinking about why I wear my clergy collar. I will also say that, it seems that there are some funny myths and symbolism projected onto the wearing of the collar. Like wearing a certain style means that you're "low" church or "high" church (as though those labels were in any way relevant). I do not put any stock into that. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. However, if you're interested in a bit of fashion history, here's a bit on the origins of the clerical collar. Wikipedia is also good for a thing or two. Proof that clergy are a bunch of dandies.

I wear mine most days to work; most times I perform any liturgical functions. I've also worn it to: the hospital, grocery store, the mall, sporting events, dinner parties, jury duty (I didn't get picked), bars, airports, and probably a bunch of other places I can't remember. I do not wear it to sleep in.

This one says, "I'm ready for anything!"

Perhaps it’s to make a visible distinction between the minister and the rest of you guys. I confess that I have and do still wear my clergy attire to be recognized as such. It has opened doors in restricted areas in hospitals to pray with parishioners. It has tempered the attitude of some of the teenagers with whom I work. If you're wondering, there has only ever been one free lunch. That's a story for another time.

There are other reasons too, I suppose. Wearing it puts me in the right mind. Perhaps it's a small if not meager way of putting on Christ for me. People like my friend the waiter do take notice. Once a young teenage mother seeing me in my priest get-up wandering through a hospital, asked me if I would go to the NICU with her to bless her baby. I saw Christ in that encounter with mother and wee child. I pray they saw Christ in me. On the other end of the spectrum, I must confess that there are times when I do not want to be a priest, much less look like one. I have my moments, God forgive me. All this is to say that my vocation brings with it certain curiosities, like special clothes. And all the business that goes with special clothes.

I worry that my attire is sometimes more about looking like a priest than being a priest. Do clergy ever "hide" behind the collar? Well, I have in some ways, I'm sure. I also worry that it creates a barrier. Like any uniformed individual, a pastor can be the target of all sorts of assumptions, good, bad, and crazy. Sometimes I must both look like and be a priest.

[Interlude: I would be remiss if I did not mention here that I've heard from many of my female colleagues about their own particular frustrations with clergy attire and fashion. I can't pretend to understand it better than they could; they can tell you better than I. I mention it because a female colleague is way more likely to get comments about her appearance than on her actual gifts for ministry. Parishioner to me: "Nice sermon!" Parishioner to her: "Nice hair!" True story. This is to say that while I have my own angst about my work clothes, there are certain things with which I simply do not contend. And to my female colleagues in ministry: respect. Much respect.]

I might also say something about clergy shirts and modesty, but I also have some pretty expensive suits in my closet that I bought to go with those clergy shirts. I have a hard time reconciling that with the modest of my priestly attire.

Maybe I wear them because they hide stains better as some suggest. Probably why I only put two in my Lenten suitcase. And while spilled coffee (or ashes) on a clergy shirt is nbd, as a father with a toddler, I can tell you that a clergy shirt can’t really hide it when my daughter uses my shirt as a napkin, snot rag, or burp cloth.

Ash Wednesday: Lenten Packing List

Jesus said to them, "Take nothing for your journey, 

no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money—

not even an extra tunic." (Lk 9.2) 

Though I didn’t think of it at the outset, choosing this as a Lenten discipline was a lot like packing for a trip. I mean, it was exactly like packing for a trip. I usually don’t stumble into such obvious metaphors like that. I’m a little embarrassed. But if Lent is a spiritual journey, what’s the harm in making it a little more like a literal journey? As with any trip I had to plan and consider all sorts of issues like job and leisure and lifestyle. Some of my choices were practical. Others were simply a matter of preference. It was a little tedious, frankly. And like packing for a trip, I have that slightly nagging feeling that I will have forgotten something or failed to take something into account once the journey has begun. The prospect of actually having to live with one’s decisions can be troubling.

Not pictured: hoodie

My wife helped me a good bit by posing confounding questions like: don’t you think you’ll need to wear flip flops between now and Easter? She also convinced me that dress shoes—which I detest—were essential. And at the last minute she persuaded me that I should trade a shirt out for a pair of jeans. She's wise. I did need to do two loads of laundry in order to “pack for my trip” which isn’t so unusual. I also required an excel spreadsheet in order to negotiate my list which either means I’m awesome or I am totally over-thinking this.

A couple of things that occurred to me while packing: On any given day I actually have a lot of clothes from which to choose, but I seem to choose the same clothes. A lot of clothes that are in my closet and dresser go unused for weeks and even months; I regularly wear only a small percentage of my wardrobe.

If I'm being honest, it took far too long for me to actually pack, and already I feel like I have too much stuff even for a 40 day journey.

Here’s my packing list (check my math). Notably absent--flip flops:

2 clergy shirts

2 pairs of pants

1 pair of jeans

3 "regular" shirts

1 pair of athletic shorts

1 athletic shirt

1 pair athletic underwear

7 pairs of boxers

7 undershirts

7 pairs of socks

1 pair of dress shoes

1 pair of casual shoes

1 pair of athletic shoes

1 pair pajama pants

1 pajama shirt

1 hoodie

1 belt

1 vest

The Clothes Make the Person

Do clothes matter? Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know. I know that I've had a kind of funny relationship with clothes much of my life. And by "funny" I don't exactly mean clown shoes. And don't get me started on haircuts which I'm fairly certain were invented by the devil. I feel like a little too much of my life has been consumed by concern over my attire. What I like to wear. What I should wear. Why I should or shouldn't wear whatever it is I should or shouldn't wear. It doesn't take too much effort to recall my middle school years where we literally socially classified people by what kind of clothes they wore. We were cruel. And stupid.

Sometimes I have felt like I am supposed to care about clothes more than I want to. Maybe I was scarred by all those horrid trips to the mall as a child. I mean, of course I was. Sometimes I yearn for my grad school days when 2 pairs of jeans and 3 or 4 black t-shirts comprised more than half my entire wardrobe. Notably I once lived in a city where "casual attire" on party invitations could have been intended any number of ways. Then I moved to a different city where I once wore jeans and a pearl-snap shirt to a party and was totally overdressed.

I should also note that I have a job that involves a uniform and a good bit of playing dress-up. Some of my colleagues might frown a bit at that. Don't get me wrong, clergy peeps; it's not a judgment, just an observation. I dig it. I own a biretta, and I love me a cope! But let's face it, I've gotten drawn into one too many conversations about liturgical apparel. I also know that some of you, like me, have had experiences where your outward appearance took focus away from your actual ministry. I have a friend and colleague whose shoes were a topic of continuous conversation among some in our parish. I think these folks missed what a fantastic pastor my friend was simply because they disapproved of clogs or some nonsense, and I'm not overstating the situation. My uniform also elicits a wide array of responses, commentary, and questions.


So I have arrived at a peculiar Lenten discipline this year: For the duration of Lent I will limit my wardrobe to 40 items*. Oh, and I would blog about it. How did I arrive at this, you ask?

My wife and I discussed using Lent to purge unused and unwanted items from our household after so many conversations about how we have far too much stuff. We sometimes refer to the garage as "the shame room" since it serves as a giant receptacle of stuff we just don't know what to do with. Of course my closet and dresser is filled with clothing that I never or hardly even wear. Both of us independently read and were inspired by this article.

Then there was this piece which confirmed some of my suspicions about how my clothing purchases and what I do with unwanted clothing might make me complicit in some economic and social injustices in the world.

Finally, there was this little gem that offered some clever suggestions like giving away clothes and only wearing the same four outfits for Lent.

But all of this got me thinking about my (our?) relationship and even curious preoccupation with clothing, what it says about us in all manner of things (gender, class, culture, race, occupation, etc.), and the expression, freedom, burdens, and limitations we find in what we wear. And does God really care about what we wear?

My only other idea was to give up the first person, singular, possessive pronoun. And chocolate.

More to come on the whys and hows of this endeavor.

*After some debate and counsel from my wife, I decided that shoes and socks would count in pairs rather than singularly. I also wouldn't count clerical collars separately from clergy shirts. I also wouldn't count vestments. Go ahead and judge me, if you want to.