A Body in Pain

Disclaimer: This post is pretty raw. It's my own story, and the "you" should be read as a plural "you" not necessarily directed toward any individual or particular community of people. It's a corporate "you" not meant to point fingers, purposely left generic. 

This is my story. Or at least, part of it. But I wonder if it's not the story of other injuries present in the midst of the body of Christ, longing for meaningful journeys toward reconciliation. And I wonder whether perhaps many of those journeys might begin with simply listening to one another's pain, without defensiveness or judgment. Shared pain, which can then be healed, because ultimately all of our health depends upon it. 

I don't know how to start this post, so I'm just going to say it: I want to talk about pain.

At least, now that I have named this topic, if that's not something you're up for reading about, you can click away to something more palatable right away.

As it is so often with pain, this is raw and it has the potential to get messy. Sorry about that. Sort of.

I want to start by saying this as clearly as possible: You have hurt me. More than you can know. More than you will probably ever understand.

You have spent years, with your words and your actions, convincing me that the person that God has created me to be is not acceptable within the body of Christ. You have made it clear that I am not good enough, that I'm too female or too single or too intelligent or too opinionated or too pushy or too emotional--that bodies such as mine are sure to lead men in the congregation into sin if they stand in the pulpit and speak the words that I've so carefully prepared and prayed over. You've made it clear that I make you uncomfortable, just by my very presence among you. You've made me believe that there is something wrong with me. That I don't quite belong.

And, more often than not, I've absorbed all of those things--the things you've said, the things that you've left unsaid, the glances, the careful theological statements designed to depersonalize the deeply personal. I've sat there, I've taken it, and I've tried to stuff it somewhere deep within, promising myself that I'd try harder to be something acceptable in your sight, so that I might belong in this body--because as painful as it is, it's more painful to imagine not belonging to the body at all. So, I stayed.

Then the time finally came when the pain was too great, and it was time to find a way to leave. To take my pain with me, and go, and hope that somewhere on the other side of the wilderness would be a place of welcome and belonging and community again--that God would see me faithfully through the wilderness journey, that God is present in the wilderness too, as Sarah Bessey has so beautifully put it.

And, thanks be to God, the wilderness was a sacred space of encounter with God in ways I would never have imagined, of belonging and healing and hope. And, on the other side, there was community and welcome and belonging that has been more than I ever believed that I could hope for.

But the pain that I've taken within myself all these many years still lingers.

And sometimes we cross paths again, because although most of the time now we dwell among different tribes, we're not so far apart as we might like to think.

And sometimes, I find myself in situations where you stand behind the pulpit, or hold out the bread and the cup, or speak a prayer of blessing.

And I let you do that, because I subscribe to the age-old wisdom: "Don't create a scene."

But as I do so, I take another bite of pain, swallow, and place it somewhere deep within me along with the rest. 

My body, bearing the cost, so that you won't feel the discomfort of a scene.

Is it right of me, I wonder, to hold all this pain within--not making the sort of scene that would make you own your part in all of this?

Because we are, after all, part of one Body, and if one part of the Body hurts, all is impacted, isn't it?

So, am I honouring you as part of the one Body by hiding the pain from your sight?

And can we ever truly be part of the one Body when the hand is oblivious to the ache in the knee? 

You might think the wound is gone, but it's not. I've just shielded you from its presence, because it's the right thing to do. Or so I've thought.

Is there a way to let the pain into the light, to make it known, so that real healing might take place? Is there a way to do that which will not merely result in more pain? 

Is there an alternative to this being a cross that I bear quietly, by myself, so as not to make anyone else unduly uncomfortable?

I hesitate to even voice it, but let me say--If I am to be healed, it cannot be my work alone. We are part of one Body, and just as the pain isn't really mine but ours, so the healing cannot be my work alone. I suspect it is also ours.

What does that mean? What does it mean to share the pain that I've made my own? What does it mean to shift the dynamics of power and privilege in meaningful ways? Will the cure be worse that the disease?

These are the things I wonder, as the pain surfaces once again. 

Soon it will recede. It usually does. At least for a while, it will lie dormant, until the next time it surfaces again.

Until, maybe one day, we can find that healing together.

Making Peace with the Pruning Shears

I am the Real Vine and my Father is the Farmer. He cuts off every branch

of me that doesn't bear grapes. And every branch that is grape-bearing 

he prunes back so it will bear even more.          

I have a beef with this particular passage of Scripture from the beginning verses of John 15, taken here from Eugene Peterson's paraphrase, The Message.

It leads me to imagine God as a flint-eyed gardener gleefully sharpening his cold steel pruning shears. Not exactly an image that gives me the warm fuzzies.

What ever happened to 'the Lord is my shepherd'? And why is it so hard to reconcile the image of the One who leads me beside still waters and restores my soul with the same God who is just waiting to prune the struggling bits off the vine? 

I'm sure this is harsh, but boy I don't like this metaphor for God. In my experience, being cut hurts, whether it's a slip of the knife while making supper, or the harsh reality of job cuts, or not making the cut for the team. 

Couldn't we all just put those scissors down and talk about this for a while? Or, I hear that playing music for plants and talking nicely to them can do absolute wonders... Maybe we could try that!

I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Pruned.

I've seen firsthand the effects of hands that were too eager to lay the axe to a program or ministry that they felt wasn't producing enough fruit, when perhaps there was still plenty of life left in it after all. And it didn't feel good at all.

But, on the other hand, I have been really struggling to manage my time and juggle priorities lately. I am desperately thirsty for more time for prayer, for reflection, for meaningful conversations with other people--all good and necessary and healthy components of pastoral ministry, and of life more broadly. And the only way that is going to happen is if something else can be trimmed--if the places that are taking up too much energy without producing good fruit can either be pruned or grafted onto another vine where they will be able to thrive.

So I find myself caught in the middle, gazing fearfully at God and his steel shears, wondering if I can trust that they will be wielded for my good and not to harm me--like a good surgeon can wield a scalpel for healing instead of harm--while at the same time starving for permission to take my own set of shears to my responsibilities in a way that I'm convinced will lead to better health not only for me, but in the long run also for everyone around me. (If only cleaning the bathroom or taking out the garbage could be the first thing cut from the list!)

It reminds me of the lengthy conversation I had with the oral surgeon at the consultation appointment prior to having my wisdom teeth removed. Having just enough medical knowledge to be dangerous, I engaged her in a detailed discussion about the pros and cons of anesthesia, leading ultimately to a discussion about anxiety medication as an option should I feel that would be helpful. (In my own defence, I just really like to have all the information before making a decision...)

Even as I sat in the chair and the oral surgeon talked aloud to herself about the correct dose of the anesthetic, I was nervous about the sedation process and its possible risks. And counting out loud backward from ten when I didn't feel tired in the least seemed like a foolish process--until one minute I was counting and the next I was wide awake in the recovery room, with no recollection whatsoever of how I got from one room to the next, or of what happened in the interim.

Which is to say--maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe there is a time for pruning, just as there is a time for gentle shepherding.

And maybe I, of all people, need to have more empathy for those who resist changes to the familiar patterns of doing things, even if I suspect that it's for the greater health in the long run.

Maybe I should know that it's hard to trust the One who wields the shears.

Until you take a closer look at the gardener, see those familiar eyes looking at you with such love, and realize that it's the Teacher, and he knows your name, as Mary Magdalene also found out so very long ago (John 20:15-16).