I Thought That When I Became a Vicar, the Sexist Remarks Would Stop—I Couldn’t Have Been More Wrong

What does it feel like to be a female vicar in a religious institution still grappling with gender equality? When 31-year-old Reverend Pippa White swapped her job as a barmaid for life in the pulpit, she thought it would mean leaving everyday sexism behind. Instead, she discovered that even a dog collar doesn’t grant women respect.

What It Feels Like To Be a Female Vicar in a Church That Still Struggles With Sexism

Can I tell you about my first ever experience as a Reverend? It happened within the first hour of me being ordained, and it set the tone for the years of my ministry ever since.

We’re all at Lichfield Cathedral. It’s June 2022. A dozen of us ordinands have just successfully become Reverends. With all the nervous energy starting to leave my body, and with the ordination service being over two hours long, I felt nature calling.

A friend and I walked from the courtyard where everyone was gathered, down the steps and along the side lane to get to the toilet block for the cathedral. As we rounded the corner to the loos, a drunk white man heading in the opposite direction loudly announces what a ‘sexy lady’ I am to everyone in earshot. My friend and I immediately challenge him on this. The man, now becoming both defensive and aggressive at two young women not taking his comment submissively, doubles down. My friend and I make eye contact with each other, telepathically agree that any more interaction with this guy will get us nowhere, and walk away.

Determined not to let it spoil my day, I shoved the encounter to the back of my mind and didn’t mention it to anyone. But it was just a taster of what was to come. One occasion is unfortunate. The string of moments like it—being referred to as ‘the stripper’ by a parishioner, persistently hit on by a godfather at a christening while we’re still in church, being randomly asked ‘You a virgin, then?’ by the drunk person I’m trying to help safely through town—is a pattern.

Before I became a Reverend, I was a full-time barmaid, and I was used to this particular brand of nonsense. In the pub, men would show off to their mates by making comments; they would ask questions in which they had no interest in the answer (only in provoking a reaction), or they would pine after me with big eyes (not wanting the real me, obviously, but the barmaid version of me they had created in their heads). So when I found out I was approved to become a Reverend, and would be leaving the pub scene behind me to go into the Church, I was thrilled. I ran straight into the arms of theological college thinking, ‘I’ll never have to deal with someone asking me what the colour of my knickers is in the workplace ever again.’ The nonsense was finally behind me, and I had hit that elusive point in a woman’s life when she is treated with respect. Or so I thought.

Whilst doing the publicity for my book, the one everyone wants to ask me about is the section focusing on… dating. Out of 18 different chapters, covering everything from AI to loving people with dementia to loneliness to whether Christianity indoctrinates children, interviewers repeatedly ask how my love life is going. While it was important to me that I included the realities of dating as a Reverend (as I and others have struggled, especially with the unspoken nature of it within the Church), it was meant to be one pane in the stained-glass window. Not the entire attraction.

The fact is, it’s an odd time to be an Anglican Reverend. One hundred years ago, reverends would have been privileged white men, with a clear position of authority in the community. Fifty years ago, these men would have had a widely recognised role ministering to a shifting landscape. Thirty years ago (well, 32, technically), women were permitted to become priests. Almost one year ago, a woman attained the highest office in the Church of England for the first time. But while Sarah Mullally may now have authority over the worldwide Anglican Communion, women in dog collars sometimes struggle to hold authority in everyday conversations.

Admittedly, this goes hand in hand with where the Church is generally: people trust us less, people consider us less relevant, and there’s a slight air of ‘Oh! You’re still here?’. Yet it’s more than that: all the female clergy I know have war stories of being dismissed, undermined or underestimated. There is no one ‘type’ to receive this, by the way: no matter how we present ourselves (traditionally girlie, mumsy, more masculine, and anything in between), we all seem to be seen as the ‘Lady Vicar’, who isn’t quite as commanding as their counterpart, the ‘Vicar’. Because, of course, the ‘Male’ part isn’t needed. People would rather hear about how many dates I’ve been on as a young lady vicar than discuss my theological writings as a Cambridge graduate. People want to hear the salacious details rather than discuss the issues I’ve highlighted in modern-day Western society.

This begs the question: why is the fact that we’re women so important? Or, depending on how you look at it, distracting? We have the same training, we read the same books, we preach the same gospel. I honestly don’t know what the fascination is. Believe me, if I did know, I’d be telling all my sisters-in-arms. I seriously hope that with the dawn of the Most Reverend Mullally, we may be in for a new day. The dream is that we’ll all be seen as just the vicar; nothing more, nothing less. In the meantime, I’m off to talk about the 17 other chapters.

Taken in part from Not a Priestess: Tales from Beyond the Pulpit. Pippa White is Rector of Newport with Longford and Chetwynd in Lichfield Diocese.