The other night, it happened again, just in different words.
“Wow, you’re bold to wear that collar.”
I was at an evening contemplative prayer service at our church. The person — a dear friend — didn’t say it rudely or as a challenge. I actually laud him for bringing it up. His statement inspired me to write this post. It was more of a conversation starter than anything. And he was right!
Out here in the western U.S., it is unusual. Most pastors in my denomination (the ELCA) only wear the clerical collar on Sunday mornings—if that. If you go to the Midwest or the East Coast, you’ll see ELCA pastors wearing the collar more often. Same in larger metro areas like San Francisco, Sacramento, or L.A. But here in rural-ish coastal California, I’m definitely in the minority.
The Early Days
When I was first ordained a couple of years ago, I wore the collar almost every time I was at church: in the office, during council meetings, meeting with parishioners, even on Zoom for Bible study. But I quickly realized not many of my peers were wearing it. Once, at a local pastor text study, a colleague asked if I wore it out in public. I explained that I wore it to church-related things, and if I happened to swing by the grocery store on the way home, then yes, I suppose I did. He shook his head and said he hardly ever wore his.
Out here, a collar can read as old-fashioned, Catholic-y, or worse—hierarchical. It can feel like a wall between pastor and community. So I wore it less. Mostly on Sundays. But honestly, it felt strange to wear a normal shirt in church spaces, like I was hiding from the role I’d been called to. Still, I didn’t want to come across as stuffy when I was just beginning to build trust with my parish.
Inspiration from Abroad
But I’ve been noticing something online. Younger clergy, particularly in Germany, Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, and the U.K.—all wearing the collar regularly.
In Germany and Scandinavia, they’re Lutheran. In the U.K., Church of England. And they don’t seem aloof or hierarchical. They’re approachable, humble, joyful—even funny. The collar isn’t a barrier for them, but a bridge.
Everywhere else in the world, Lutheran pastors are called priests. There’s no anxiety about the word, no need to distance themselves from institutional Christianity or catholicity. In fact, it’s embraced. The collar is simply the servant-priest’s uniform, a visible sign of vocation.
It’s mostly in the U.S.—especially in Protestant-heavy regions—that we get twitchy about it, often looking more Baptist than Lutheran (no shade, just naming the difference).
Why I Wear It
So why do I still wear the collar more often than many of my peers?
It reminds me I’m here to serve. Not to be above anyone, but to remember I’m clothed in Christ, not in… Jonas.
It signals availability. A little nametag that says: “If you need prayer, conversation, or just a listening ear, I’m here.”
It starts conversations. At the grocery store, coffee shop, or gas station—people ask. And those questions open doors that wouldn’t otherwise.
It connects me to the wider church. I feel less like an isolated California pastor and more like part of a global communion of servants of Christ.
It simplifies my life. Honestly, I’m a little lazy. The collar means I don’t have to think about what to wear. And my clergy shirts are surprisingly comfortable (big ups to Wicking Vicar, the MOST comfortable clergy shirts on the market — they actually call their shirts ‘performance clergy shirts’)1.
I’ll admit—these reasons are idealistic. They’re more aspirational than descriptive on some days. But if the next generation of clergy doesn’t change the narrative, who will? The popular image of the church in our culture is shadowed by a kind of darkness. Too many evangelical pastors (no, not all) don skinny jeans and flannel to appear relatable while preaching a theology that is oppressive, partisan, identitarian, and exclusionary. And let’s be honest: collar-wearers aren’t innocent either—we’ve caused plenty of harm. But this little white tab ties us to the institution, which should make us careful about how we represent Christ’s church. We can’t hide like undercover clergypeeps.
I believe mainline clergy need to wear the collar with boldness—not as a throwback costume, but as a signpost. A way to spark conversation and reframe the story toward Christ.
Yes, it’s uncomfortable. Yes, it invites ridicule, suspicion, or worse. But it sounds to me like good trouble—the kind worth stirring if it helps turn the church’s story back toward the God who laid down divine privilege, took the form of a servant, and befriended the world to redeem it.
A Window, Not a Wall
I’m circling back to my initial instincts. Those young-buck clergy I see abroad have nudged me to reclaim the collar more often, even if it feels countercultural here in California. Their witness reminds me that this little white tab can be a bridge, not a barrier.
So onward I’ll march into the discomfort of wearing the little white tab among my beloved flip-flop–wearing, laid-back friends here on the California coast—the people I’ve been called to serve and walk alongside. Not as a wall that separates me from the community, but as a window into the God who clothes all of us in grace.
And if you see me in it—in church, at the café, or in the checkout line—know it’s not about me being more holy. It’s about me remembering that our lives are held in Christ. Collar or no collar, may we all be clothed in grace.
No, they’re not paying me to say this:)
Eight months ago, I received a very clear call to become a Lutheran (ELCA) pastor. Unfortunately, I was 75 years old at the time (I’m now 76), and I realized quickly that it is too late. I worship every Sunday at our small ELCA church here on our island in Puget Sound, Washington State. If I were a pastor, I’d wear the collar regularly.
I come from a rather priestly family: my mother’s father was a Lutheran pastor and chaplain in WWII. My father’s older brother was a Norwegian Lutheran pastor and educator, and I have a cousin in Norway that is a recently retired Lutheran priest.
I have stopped asking God why He waited so long to call me. Instead, I have placed my trust in Him and listen.
I apologize for this rather wordy comment, but I’m so happy to have “discovered” you on Substack. I think there is only one other Lutheran pastor that I have found here.
God bless you, Pastor Jonas. Keep writing!💙
I don’t remember what brought me to your Substack, but I’m glad I’m here.