Confessions of a Scrolling Pastor

JANE WILLAN PHOTO

The other night, my husband, Don, was deeply involved in a horror movie on Netflix. He finds it relaxing. It’s something I’ve learned not to question. Our rescue dog, Ollie, had curled up on his fluffy, designer dog bed, occasionally twitching a paw as if chasing dream-squirrels. And Winnie the cat was—well, who knows where the cat was. It was a perfectly peaceful scene, the kind you’re supposed to soak in.

And I was scrolling on my phone.

I wasn’t looking at anything important. It was the usual digital flotsam: a distant friend’s vacation photos, an ad for socks I didn’t need, a headline about something I couldn’t change. I felt that familiar, low-grade hum of digital fatigue, the one that leaves your eyes tired and your mind feeling like a cluttered attic.

As a pastor, I think a lot about genuine connection. The real kind, the one that involves looking someone in the eye, not just at their curated profile. The kind that might include a shared silence or an awkward hug, things an emoji can’t quite capture. I put the phone on the end table with a sense of resolve. I would be present. I would enjoy the quiet rhythm of the evening.

Five minutes later, I picked it up again. This time, with a mission.

I confess what I typed into the search bar: “How to spend less time on your phone.”

The irony was not lost on me. OK, it was for a minute. And yet, I scrolled on. One article promised a “five-step digital detox.” Another extolled the virtues of turning my screen to grayscale, which apparently makes it as appealing as cold oatmeal. I briefly considered this, then pictured trying to decipher the church newsletter in shades of gray and thought better of it.

An hour passed. The Netflix monster had either been vanquished or was still on the loose; Don’s tranquil expression from the armchair was inconclusive. Ollie had shifted positions twice. Winnie had still not appeared. And I had spent sixty precious minutes of my one and only life staring intently at a glowing screen to learn how to stop staring at a glowing screen. A quiet comedy of errors in which I was the star.

It occurs to me that this isn’t just my own personal weakness. It’s a paradox of our age. We carry these powerful tools of connection in our pockets, these windows into thousands of lives, yet they can make our own rooms feel emptier. We can send a heart emoji across an ocean in an instant, but that doesn’t feel the same as a hand on your shoulder when you need it most. We know what our friends had for breakfast, but we don’t always know what’s truly weighing on their hearts.

We’ve traded presence for posts.

This isn’t a new problem—just a more tech-savvy version of it. Loneliness got herself an upgrade. She’s got Bluetooth now and a pretty decent camera filter. But don’t be fooled. She’s the same old visitor, still slipping in when we’re tired and pretending she’s not the one turning down the lights.

The Bible nailed it long before Facebook:

“Two are better than one… For if they fall, one will lift up the other. But woe to the one who is alone when they fall and has no one to help them up.” —Ecclesiastes 4:9 10

That’s the kind of woe your phone won’t fix, no matter how long you scroll or how many group chats you’ve muted.

I’m a church person—not just by calling, but by choice. Sure, it’s my profession, but it’s also my potluck, my book group, and, let’s be honest, my primary source of baked goods and unsolicited opinions.

I found my footing—and my sense of timing—in pews and parish halls. My favorite BBC show? The Vicar of Dibley. My storytelling rhythm? Lifted straight from Garrison Keillor and the good Lutherans of Lake Wobegon, who knew a thing or two about drama in the choir loft. I write mysteries set in an Abbey and novels about a woman pastor who is—truth be told--a lot like me. Well, younger and thinner. Simply put, I love church. Always have.

Why? Connection. The kind of stubborn, sacred belonging that says you don’t have to be perfect, you just have to be present. It’s a fellowship that goes far beyond a simple social contract. It is, as every seasoned church lady knows, that we don’t just show up. We show up with Tupperware and a plan.

Although, pastors have a more sophisticated phrase for it--we call it “the ministry of presence.” It’s the simple, profound act of being there. It’s sitting with a family in a hospital waiting room, not saying much at all. It’s sending a card to a neighbor who’s had a rough week. It’s lingering after the service to ask someone, “No, how are you really doing?”

There is a grace in that tangible, inefficient, human connection that technology cannot replicate. It’s in these moments we find the things we’re all searching for, whether we’re sitting in a church pew or a coffee shop: a sense of grounding in a chaotic world, the healing that comes from being truly seen, and a joy that is so much richer when it’s shared.

I finally put the phone down for good that night. Ollie, sensing a shift in the atmosphere, woke up and brought me his toy to throw. Winnie appeared, haughty and catlike but beautiful all the same. Don changed the channel to NatGeo and frolicking sea otters replaced raging zombie monsters. I hadn’t solved the world’s problems or even my own habits that evening. But for a little while, I was just there. And I think, just maybe, that’s where the best connections begin.

Jane Willan, pastor of Plantsville Congregational Church, is the author of the Sister Agatha Mystery series. Her latest novel, The Widow’s Walk, comes out October 21.