My Voice in the Church

Oh the precious, beautiful church, with whom I have a precarious and precious relationship. This is the first of many posts I will write on her.

When I was in seminary, my home church did not ask me to guest preach when I came home. They did not ask me if I wanted a mentor. They did not pull me aside and ask me what my goals were for a future in ministry. There was no investment in developing my calling or my experience, except to help out with the youth program (which I had no interest in pursuing vocationally). They did send me care packages with the rest of the college students (which I am grateful for). They did give me scholarships for books each year (which I am very grateful for). But they missed an extremely important step. No one saw me as someone worth pursuing as a woman in ministry.

There were two other women from that church who went to seminary. They also were not pursued, despite their giftedness and potential. 

When I was home one summer, I participated in a group that discussed the "mission" of the church. It was more of a catchphrase to put on publications, but I was happy to be a part of the conversation. The pastor, who I deeply respect, made comments about seminarians that were belittling and condescending. "I remember when I was in seminary and had all these new ideas, I thought I knew a lot!" Over ten years out of seminary, I understand these thoughts, but I would never dare say it to a seminarian. I pressed on, feeling that my voice still had importance. 

One adjustment I suggested was that instead of using "He" as the primary descriptor for God, that we switch the language into gender neutral terms. Scriptures have myriad images for God, many that are not male gendered. I wanted to represent a broader idea of who God is by giving space for those different images. When I expressed this, the group seemed to appreciate this opinion, and I felt I had made a significant impact. 

A few weeks later the mission statement was published. The word "He" was littered throughout, no gender neutrality at all. I was angry and confused. When I left the meeting, we had agreed on a mission statement that looked very different. Sometime between when I left that meeting and when the print hit the page, it was switched back to the previous language. I asked the pastor what happened. He said that one member (an older male) felt it was better the other way, so they switched it. He said it almost like it was an afterthought, no significance to note.

I realized I had made no difference at all. I felt small and insignificant. I felt stupid. Like my voice on that committee was just a token gift to make me feel like I had a part, when really I did not. I backed away and became less invested in the mission of this church that had snuffed my voice without notice or apology, and for something as small as the discomfort of an older white man. 

I still love that church. I still love so many people in that church, even some who have hurt me severely. I pray that they get to experience the power that is realizing God is not a man. It is so freeing when God no longer has to squeeze inside such tiny boxes. It's frightening, but beautiful. 

So here is my voice that was nonchalantly dismissed: God is not an old, white man. God is beyond the human descriptors that we use to categorize ourselves. God's self description: I Am. And we are created in that image. So like Paul says in the scriptures: in Christ there is no male nor female, Jew nor Greek, slave nor free. We are all images of "I Am"- and our categories are pitifully inadequate to capture the beauty that is God and humanity. How can we limit ourselves and God when faced with the ridiculous variety that is in nature? Not one thing in all of creation is like any other. Not even a leaf or a blade of grass. That takes some beauty, creativity, and flair for uniqueness. 

My mission statement: God is Love. We are ALL made in the image of love. I will strive in all the ways I can to embody LOVE, which is my truest foundation, the foundation of all creation.