For the Ones Who Leave...

Years ago, I read two blog essays posted by Sarah Bessey, "For the Ones Who Leave" and "For the Ones Who Stay" (or something close to that...I don't believe that the original essays are still posted). They were written in 2014, when World Vision USA reversed a decision to change its employment and conduct policy to allow them to hire employees in same sex marriages, after a flood of donors responded to the change by dropping their child sponsorships. 

At the time, I was already struggling to figure out whether there was still a place for me within my church tradition, after more than a decade of struggling to find space for myself as a single woman in pastoral ministry. The struggle and grief I felt that people would stop funding programs to support families and children in need because of a policy change that essentially made space for Christians of diverse convictions was significant, and only added to the wrestling I was doing about how to faithfully remain part of the church when the cost to me was becoming increasingly steep.

And it says something that I still remember those two essays more than perhaps any article I read as a seminary student during that same time. And I read more than a few!

They gave me permission and language to acknowledge that faithfulness could be found either in knowing when to walk away into the wilderness, trusting God enough to believe that they would meet me there, or in staying within the church body I was part of, committed to faithfulness in spite of her imperfections. It was an immense relief, and permission to discern which path was the more faithful one for me. 

Several years later, it was a clear nudge from God as I was praying one evening that made it clear that the time had come for me to choose the faithfulness of the ones who leave.

In recent weeks, a book called On Holy Ground has been published by the Mennonite Brethren Historical Commission, documenting the stories of fifteen women leaders within the Mennonite Brethren Church. Several people I consider friends have contributed parts of their stories to the book. 

I can't bring myself to read it. Even watching the book launch online was challenging.

Subsequently, I learned that the national conferences in Canada and the USA had ordered the book to be reprinted with three pages removed from one of the women's story. The missing pages can be read here.

(However, to be clear, none of what follows is commentary on the book itself--I haven't read it and cannot comment on it. To be clear, my reflections are based instead upon my experiences as a woman who ultimately left the MB Church, which have been brought to the surface by witnessing the news surrounding the book's publication.) 

Witnessing these events unfolding has bothered me, in part, I believe, because I have had a front row seat as the stories of so many women within the MB Church have been silenced over the years. Not usually in such dramatic and public ways, but as one after another has left the church after trying so hard to find a way to stay and use her voice and her gifts, but finding it impossible.

And part of my concern is that as these women find places for themselves elsewhere, their stories are lost. 

The story of the journey of women in leadership in the Mennonite Brethren Church is not complete without hearing from these voices, too. The voices who are no longer around to tell their stories, to speak of the joys and pains of their journey as women leaders within the conference, and beyond it.

And it is complicated. While those voices are lost in part because of external factors, there are also very good reasons why we may choose not to share our stories publicly, or within the context of the Church tradition from which we've walked away. Nobody owes their story to anyone. 

I honour the faithfulness of those who have stayed, who are continuing to share their stories and to work for change--even as I admit that sometimes their stories make me feel inadequate for having to choose the faithfulness of those who leave.

And yet, there has been such life for me in the leaving. I now find a home in a church where I'm able to lead and use my gifts with more freedom than I ever imagined possible. Since my earliest days in Mennonite Church Canada, it has felt like after years of struggle, my skin fits--and I'm profoundly grateful! Without a doubt, I do not regret choosing the faithfulness of those who leave. It was the right decision for me, and the path of faithfulness to which I was called.

Most of my writing is in fact selfish--a way of processing my thoughts and feelings, and an act of reclaiming the voice that I was denied for so long.

But I also write today in case there are others whose stories are those of leaving, who feel that their voices may have been lost in the process, whether in this context or another. 

You matter too. Your story is also one of courage, of strength, of faithfulness. It, too, is holy ground.

On Honouring Stories, and Loving Your Neighbour.

I'm well aware that as far as support for vaccination and public health measures, I will consistently choose to err on the side of caution. More often than not, over the past 2 years, I've chosen to exceed the level of restrictions put in place by the Manitoba government. And, for the most part, the people closest to including my family and friends, have also chosen the cautious path.

But I have noticed far more frequently than before, in casual conversation, that people have been asking me if I or family members would be considered to be higher risk. I'm sure it's not meant to, but it tends to feel like a judgment.

At the same time, in Canada, public discourse has seemed to become more and more polarized in the past weeks and months in terms of COVID restrictions and vaccination mandates. 

And while I've already disclosed where my own views fit on this subject (fully vaxxed and boosted; I was so relieved to get the booster in December that afterward I sat in my car fighting back tears of gratitude), I'm not here to argue my position. 

I am becoming more and more concerned about the "us and them" tone in my social media feeds, in the media, and in general conversation, especially with the suspicion and sometimes unkindness with which "we" tend to look at anyone who might be categorized as "them."

Disheartening doesn't even begin to capture it.

Besides, I've been reminded that all of us have a story, and that when the stories we hear, or the viewpoints we seek out, support our own positions, we're only getting part of the picture.

And that stories go a long way to helping us learn to love our neighbours better.

Before I started working at House Blend, I must confess that I had no personal experience, and lots of biased thoughts and feelings around homelessness. I mostly admired people who tried to do good in this realm of the world, but would have told you that I was called to other things.

But then I was persuaded to go to one potluck, and suddenly what had only been an issue to me had faces, and stories--and a few months later, everything had changed for me. Because of the power of stories.

So, here's part of my story, for what it's worth--not because I think I owe anyone an explanation or because I have to justify my pandemic way of life, but because I'm convinced that stories still matter, and that if we would take the time to hear one another's stories, it could help us to love one another better even in the midst of disagreement.

A year ago this past December, my friend Anita* died of COVID. (I don't know anyone named Anita. The story is true, but I've decided to change my friend's name for the purposes of this blog post.)

It's still hard to say, and because nothing has been normal for the last year, it still doesn't really seem real some days.

She texted me sometime in November saying that she wasn't feeling well, but I didn't give it a whole lot of thought to be honest. Life was very busy, as we figured out how to do all the things at church in the midst of increasing restrictions, and Anita was young--just a couple years older than me--and relatively healthy. A few days later, she texted again--she had tested positive for COVID. I sympathized, wished her a speedy recovery and lots of rest, and carried on with my life. Then another text--she had been admitted to the hospital. And again--this time a selfie, sent from her ICU bed. Still, it never crossed my mind that she wouldn't make a full recovery. She was young, and relatively healthy.

But in mid-December the phone rang. It was Anita's sister. They had done everything they could, all heroic measures had been attempted, but it wasn't enough. Anita would be taken off life support that afternoon. 

Time stopped. I couldn't think of any words to say. I must have said something, but I couldn't tell you what it was. 

I remember crying in the car as I drove to and from work that week, as the loss slowly sunk in. My beautiful friend, deeply loyal to her people, with a great sense of humour, a generous heart, who gave the best hugs, was gone. It was surreal to read of the death of "a Winnipeg woman in her 40s" in the public health update, and to know it was her.

COVID has never been the same for me, since Anita died. I just want to do everything I can so to prevent someone else from having to live through that kind of painful loss. Wearing a mask, limiting my contacts-- they seem like small sacrifices, almost negligible, in comparison. I haven't given a thought to erring on the side of caution. 

Like I said, my goal in sharing my story isn't to justify my own position, or to try to change anyone's mind. It's simply to make the point that we all have stories. 

As much I as I have mine, so do other people--stories of how they've been negatively impacted by restrictions, stories of their reasons for not getting vaccinated.

And somehow, when we know those stories, even if we still don't agree with one another, we humanize the conversation, have a reason to practice compassion and empathy instead of judgement and frustration. 

More than that, some stories are deeply personal and not the kind of thing that we are willing to share in casual conversation. Even here, there are details of Anita's story (including her name) that I'm choosing to keep private.

I've been trying to remind myself that everyone has a story, even if I don't know it. I don't need to know what your story is to know that you have one. So I've been trying to choose compassion and empathy instead of judgment. Sometimes I do better than other times.

But as a follower of Jesus, "love your neighbour" is a command that I take pretty seriously, even if I don't always succeed. And it's easier to love your neighbour when you see them as a storied person, beloved by God, than as a nameless face on the "wrong" side of an issue.

I wonder if we might be well-served by taking on a stance of curiosity as a discipline of sorts in these times--curiosity to wonder what another person's story might be--all while fully knowing that we are not owed the answer to that question. I wonder if curiosity alone might not help us to be more loving--and if even small acts in the direction of love, added up, might not make a significant difference. 

O Divine master grant that I may
Not so much seek to be consoled as to console
To be understood, as to understand.
To be loved. as to love.