Life was almost always pretty good when I was a child. We
didn’t have to lock doors, and nobody ever heard of bad things (other than
alcoholism, dancing, playing cards and the like) except in church (or if the
neighborhood alcoholic, a member of a GOOD family) walked by. Our family lived
in a very safe neighborhood where everybody knew everybody else, and I couldn’t
get into much trouble before somebody turned up to get me out of it and take me
back home. The preacher at our church lived in our back yard (and also was a
frequent pair of knees under our dinner table). I got occasional spankings and
slaps from Mama, but it was usually because I had been naughty, like running
off to visit a neighbor on our street without telling her where I was going. There
were some bad things in my life, like verbal taunts and mean words from a
relative, but it was never discussed or called “abuse.” It hurt, but I learned it was just something
I had to learn to live with. In the church,
about the closest thing to abuse we experienced was being shut in a room and
told we couldn’t leave until we had signed a pledge not to drink alcohol ever.
I think I was about ten then.
Lots of people weren’t as lucky in their childhood and adolescence
as I was. For some of them, the home wasn’t a safe place, and abuse was not
unheard of. Nobody ever talked about it, though. It was one of those things
that “Just wasn’t done.” Perhaps it
should have been.
Abuse means more than physical or emotional punishment. It is
cruelty, violence, or improper use of a person or animal (and sometimes of an
object, such as forcing it to work harder or longer than it is intended to
bear). It’s an all-too-familiar word to us today and has grown to include
places where abuse takes place that seem as if they should be free from such
evil, places like schools, offices, and most of all, churches. There’s scarcely
a denomination where it has not been a suddenly “discovered” or “uncovered” offense.
Often it is known about but simply swept under the rug to preserve the good image
of the Christian faith.
About eleven years ago, I left a church I loved, not because
I disagreed with its theology or positions, but because I felt I was verbally
and emotionally abused by a member of the clergy. I had been very active but
gradually dropped out of everything because it seemed I was under increasing
scrutiny and was unable to meet expectations – or perhaps it was just a power
trip for that person. I felt hurt, disrespected, and worthless. I should have
developed a tougher skin and let such things bounce off me, but I couldn’t. I
knew before I left that others felt the same way, so it wasn’t just me. Still,
it was hard not to blame myself as much as the one who, I felt and knew, was
the cause of it.
I loved my church. It was my community and like a family to
me. But there came a time when I had to do as Jesus said in Matthew 10:14, “If anyone will not welcome you
or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your
feet (NIV).” It put me off the church,
but not off God or faith. I went by that
church every day going to work or shopping, but I could not bring myself to go
back in or even ask for help when my husband died, I had cancer surgery, or
anything else. I still had friends there, but I didn’t have a home.
Fast forward eleven years.
I’ve gone through a lot and grown in the process. The offender has left
the parish; there are new people in charge. I was invited to return by a person
enrolling in my online Education
for Ministry (EfM) group who happened to be from that parish. I took my reluctance in hand and made an
appointment with the new rector. He seemed to be someone I could trust and who
would respect me as an individual (and that I could respect in turn). I felt God tugging on my heart, and my mind
was full of possibilities. It was time.
So tomorrow, I’m celebrating what will be a “Toe in the
Water” Sunday. I can’t commit unless I am convinced that this is the place I should
and need to be. I won’t be asked the
first Sunday which ministry I would like to join, although there are a couple
in which I am very interested. I have
amends to make to several people for various things, but most of all, it is
time for me to do what God has told me so often to do – “Go. Sit. STAY!” God knows I’m not a dog, but I do need to be
reminded that I was led to the Episcopal Church many years ago, and that’s apparently
where God wants me to be. I need to be reminded of that once in a while, it
seems.
I’m nervous, yes. It’s
not easy to go back to a place where abuse has taken place, not just of me but
of many others as well, just like it’s not easy to jump off the end of a pier
into deep water without learning how to swim first. What I’m doing is like
sticking a toe in the water to check the temperature and then gently wading out,
deeper and deeper, until I am comfortable and once again a participating and
contributing part of a community that accepts me and whatever gifts and
ministries I can bring them. It’s not rebirth—once
was enough for that—but it’s like a reception or hopeful return home. It’s an acknowledgment
that I need community, and this one is offering me that. So I’m straightening
my shoulders, holding up my chin, and sticking my toe in the water, hopefully
for the last time.
Still, I could use a few prayers for courage, please?
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