Freedom

I've been wounded for a long time. Woundedness has been my language and my grounds for operation. It’s how I’ve partially functioned in the last few years. As I began pastoral ministry in 2013, my naiveté convinced me that I was ready for whatever would come into my path. I thought I knew what I was doing. I did not. I failed miserably and burned some bridges in the process. I craved mutual love and was met with conditional tolerance.

I was forced to conform to a specific ideal or teaching. To move beyond this concept was to subject oneself to scrutiny, isolation, and backlash. So, I reluctantly conformed; being internally convinced that faithfulness was akin to production. If I made the grades, then I was a faithful and obedient follower. And in any social experiment where you force a stubborn, hardheaded independent into conformity, ugliness bursts forth and continues to spew until the fountain is empty.

I finally found the bottom of the pit. There was no acid to regurgitate – just a gag reflex.

In this time of toxicity, much of what made me special had been shoved deep into a dark corner, so far that I barely recognized her anymore. I miss her. I miss the girl who was known for her laugh. I miss the girl who made silly dance videos just to make others laugh. I miss the girl who played bass in the worship band. I miss the girl that my home church knew and still talks about.

The Church killed me...or so I thought. ‘She’ took away my voice, my laughter, my happiness. And while I called out for help, with few gracious responders, I felt alone and helpless. I believed in her and she seemingly disowned me. It became this journey of asking what I did wrong, why wasn’t I enough, and what more I must do to prove myself. Since 2015, I’ve operated under this dismal world of guilt, fear, and shame – that I must achieve to be heard. And I had to work twice as hard because I had the wrong gender and struggled with emotional boundaries.

And yet, I still loved her. I realize now that those screaming voices of division and exclusion do not represent the whole Church. They were broken and battered people who probably didn’t even realize how much pain they were inflicting. They probably still don’t even know how deep the wounds are. I forgive them. I thought I already did. But just today I realized that I needed to do it again, while also asking forgiveness for myself – for the toxicity I permitted and perpetuated, for the disgraceful attitudes I’ve assigned to others who remind me of them, for the judgment and blame I’ve placed on leaders, for the disbelief of freedom and grace, for the weight I keep picking back up that God has already taken away. Melissa, I forgive you.

I still fight for the Church because I believe in her – what she believes and how she lives it out. I believe in this God of redemption; though I was floundering in darkness, somewhere deep within me believed that the light still lingered, that my imprisonment would not last forever. It’s just now dawning on me that she never abandoned me. The Church didn’t kill me; it was only my perception of the church. She never left me alone in the darkness; she chose to walk with me in it – parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, grandparents, Sunday school teachers, youth group leaders, pastors, mentors, counselors, professors, colleagues, co-workers, friends, a spouse…I was never alone. God orchestrated a big, beautiful community that has been cheering me on since birth.

Through a recent Facebook post, a former youth leader posted this: “I have always known that God has His hand on you and will use you to bring honor and glory to His name. I pray for you often.” Looking back, I’m not sure I could say I brought honor and glory to God. But maybe God received what little gifts I could give in the midst of naiveté and depression. I’m sure somewhere in between I did good. To quote the always-beloved George Feeny from Boy Meets World, “Believe in yourselves. Dream. Try. Do good.”

Though the darkness felt isolating, I was always surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses and cheerleaders. The Church has always loved me well. I’m just now catching up. Now that I’m in a healthy environment with people who choose me, believe in me, and love me, I can actually move from the brokenness and into life. I want so much to believe in myself again, although this time to really mean it. I want to dream, to try, to do good. And I will. 

As part of the staff at DCC, we’ve been joining with another local church staff to journey through a Huddle (3DM), where we learn about ourselves, how God sees us, how God uses us, and how God is shaping us. Today’s session was particularly uncomfortable. Given my proclivity towards emotional response, I process as such regardless of my surroundings. Although when I’m PMSing, it’s mostly a mood swing and carried by hormonal imbalance. Yet today, and this week, I’ve been feeling heavy. I haven’t slept well for some time; anxiety has riddled my body with cold chills, stomach aches, headaches, and blurred vision. Entertaining thoughts of ordination, rediscovering my personality type through the Enneagram and processing it with a co-worker, and then recognizing that the tides are about the change, I have been a wreck.

Beginning with the thought of ordination and wondering what it would be like to be asked to interview again, I’ve felt the heaviness of what resembles PTSD. That’s a different story that I’d rather share face-to-face. I’ve been ruminating on what it would mean to be ordained. It has nothing to do with accomplishments or achieving goals. It is not owed to me and I haven’t earned it. What I’m coming to understand is that it is about trust and belief.

The Church has believed in me all along – Sunday school teachers dedicating their time to teach me the Apostle's Creed, pastor/mentors investing their experience and passion into me and first affirming my call to ministry, providing theological education and connecting me with professors who were determined to help me understand and own my beliefs, parents who loved me at my worst and empowered me towards my best, aunts and uncles who longed for renewal and provided funds to pay off debts, grandparents who cut out devotional clippings and mailed them with letters of encouragement, church ladies who crafted personalized bookmarks and cards that redirected my attention towards the loving God. The stories go on and on of how the Church has believed in me and actively supported my call to serve God through her.

To me, ordination means that the Church trusts me as a leader, that all her time and investment has shaped me into the pastor God has called/is calling me to be. She trusts me to keep learning and growing, to remember that everything I do/say/think/act can give honor and glory to God, to continue believing in her and loving her well, and inviting others into this incredible journey of grace. What an honor that would be!

I’m so ready for the freedom – to be myself and love myself, to give honor and glory to God right this second with every word I type, to fill the void with bouts of pure joy and laughter, to dance once again. I’m ready. Watch out, world – Melissa is back.

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