Things were really complicated. I went to church ALL. THE. TIME. Daddy was and is Roman Catholic; Mother was United Methodist; we were required to go to both churches every Sunday, Sunday School, CCD, youth group, and I went to Catholic school. So why wasn’t I feeling anything? Why wasn’t I experiencing anything? Why didn’t I feel close to God? What was wrong with me?
My minister approached me, put her arm around me, and asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t feel close to God and I wasn’t sure why. I told her I didn’t know if I was living a Christian life. She told me to read Romans, confess my sins, and I would find the answers.
So I did.
I read it and nothing happened. So I re-read it, and then I read it in another translation. Still nothing. I was missing something. It didn’t give me a set of rules; I didn’t feel closer to God; but it impacted the way I viewed the BIble and faith well into my adult years.
I believed there was an answer—one specific way to understand the Bible and only one way to think about faithful living. Why did I believe that? Because a minister told me—clearly she would know—she was an authority. She also never asked me another question; she never again mentioned our conversation, and I never brought it up either. I was left feeling like I was on the outside of the group. I wasn’t good enough, holy enough, smart enough—I wasn’t enough.
I wonder how that experience would have changed me if my minister had said let’s read Romans together and talk about it. (Okay, still not really sure about the whole read Romans thing.) I wonder how it would have been different if she had asked me what I thought faithful living looked like. I wonder what would have happened if she said, “Let’s talk about this as a group.” But she didn’t, the conversation was closed, and I felt forgotten and alone.
I have never forgotten that day, her words, and my feelings. It shaped me, and it is a large part of the reason I believe so strongly in the ministry of all people. It is a large part of the reason I don’t believe a collar around my neck and The Reverend before my name means I have all the answers. And it also reminds me that the collar around my neck and The Reverend before my name has power, whether I want it to or not, to bring others closer into relationship with God or to push them away. That experience has helped to shape my voice and instilled within me a deep desire to never silence anyone else’s.
I have a strong and deep faith. I try to live my life from the core of that faith—specifically, I believe God loves everyone no exceptions. I believe God commands us to do the same. And I believe that means standing up for and standing with those on the margins—the poor, the oppressed, the hungry, the homeless—anyone who is on the outside. I believe injustice must be called out AND I believe the words we use are important. And I also believe it doesn’t help to silence other’s voices.
I was called to ordination. I was called to preach the Gospel—to bring good news, “to declare God’s forgiveness to penitent sinners, to pronounce God’s blessing.” (BCP, p. 531) I was not called to separate people from knowing God’s love, to turn people away from faith, to leave others feeling less than.
Perhaps there are times my voice, my words, are not as strong as others believe it should be. I understand that, but it’s my voice. And others’ have their voices. I do believe whether the power of one’s voice comes from a title or familiarity or fame, it comes with responsibility. The power of voice can lift up or tear down; it can open conversation or shut the door, and it can bring healing or hurt.
I believe every voice deserves to be heard.
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