Dear Christ Church,
Hey. This is weird. You may have noticed I’ve been
avoiding you lately; Hazel’s birth came at a good time. I’m still not entirely
sure how I feel about us, but I don’t like this awkwardness; I thought maybe
writing to you would be a good way to try to bring clarity to my thoughts and
let you know what’s going on in my head (I know it’s egotistical to think that
you care, but I also don’t want you making any assumptions). Had you guessed
that I’ve been thinking of leaving you? I am. I should say, though: it’s me,
not you.
I mean, at first I was pretty sure it was all you!
There are so many things we disagree on, so many things I’d do differently if I
were you. I tolerate the songs whose lyrics make no sense to me and the baptising
of babies, to name just a couple of things that make me question why we’re even
together. For a long time now I’ve tolerated your views on women, too, thinking
I was okay with simply agreeing to disagree. But the decisions made a couple of
months ago made me realise I wasn’t okay, and though I could let the songs and
the baptisms and the other things go, the women stuff is too close to my heart
to ignore.
You say you love women, that you love me, that of course we’re equal, of course my opinions matter, of course my faith and spiritual
well-being is as important as those of the men in the congregation. And then
you act in ways that make me question your words, and I have to wonder whether
it’s just some women you love, the
ones who think the same way as you and bring the morning tea and keep the kids’
church roster full and don’t ask why there are three men employed by the church
to look after the pastoral needs of the men, but no women to look after the
women? I see no proof of your professed esteem for me and my sisters, so your
talk of love and respect and equality feels empty and hurtful.
I think the hurt’s the thing that always bothers me
most, because it comes as a surprise every time and leaves me feeling like an
idiot for ever hoping again. Earlier this year I was feeling so enthusiastic
about working together with you to figure out answers to the questions we had.
Now I feel disillusioned, disenfranchised, disaffected. Dissed. And foolish. Why
did I think you would listen to my arguments when you believe so wholeheartedly
that there’s something about my body parts that makes me incapable of
explaining the Bible to men? Silly me.
And this is why it’s my fault, not yours: I wasn’t
happy with who you were and I expected you to change, which was wrong of me. I’ve
realised it’d be like joining the Greens party and then complaining about the
fact that they cared so much about the environment. Those beliefs are part of
who you are, and I should never have convinced myself (as I obviously did) that
you’d rethink them.
I’ve never coped well with the different varieties of
Christian, it’s something that bothered me even before I was one. The way my
Brethren grandparents did church was entirely different to the worship I saw in
my aunty’s Pentecostal church; I often wondered – I still wonder! – how,
despite such extreme differences, they could all possibly be talking to and about
the very same God. I don’t like this confusion – it’s one of the things
that makes me question Christianity the most, although I’ve always come to the
conclusion that my problem is with Christians rather than Christ.
Thinking through the differences you and I have in how
we interpret and apply the Bible gets to me in this same way. I don’t feel
encouraged by Sundays anymore; Sundays now involve crying in the cry room, holding my baby girl. I’m
tired of feeling like the annoying one, I’m tired of being the one who’s against, the one who’s seen as
rebellious for my (valid but different) interpretation of those key passages of
the Bible, the one who has to provide the evidence for my views rather than the
one who gets to ask the questions. It’s exhausting.
I know you’re thinking, “But it’s not all about you, that’s such a consumerist attitude
to church!” I think I agree. To an extent. Pain and exhaustion aren’t necessarily
enough of a reason to throw up my hands and walk out (I’m married, I know this). But there must be a point with
church where agreeing to disagree isn’t enough, and people have to move on, or
else there’d just be “Protestant” and no Presbyterian, Anglican, Uniting, etc.
So how do I figure out where that point lies? This is my question. And here’s
another: Can I retain any integrity while continuing to be close to you, you
who feels this way about women in general, and therefore about me in
particular? Continuing to hang out with you appears as if we’re on the same
team, and I don’t know that we are anymore. I don’t want to accidentally send
the message that I’m on board with everything you believe and practise to
anyone who may wonder, including my children. And I don’t want to become bitter
about you or to whinge about you; both of these temptations would be lessened
or removed if we parted ways.
(In case it’s crossing your mind, I’ve thought about
the distinction between gospel versus non-gospel issues; I’m not sure into
which category you’d place the issue of women in the home and church. Certainly
if we think of salvation in post-death terms we’d agree. But if we think about
what that salvation should look like in this life, I’d argue it’s absolutely a
gospel issue: if a large aspect of the gospel – the good news – for our lives
right now doesn’t include Jesus breaking down social hierarchies in order to
promote equality and unity with one another, then a) I’ve obviously
misunderstood entire books of the New Testament, and b) the “good news” isn’t
good news at all for Gentiles, slaves and women.)
I don’t want to be difficult. I honestly wish this
stuff didn’t matter to me. I wish I didn’t notice the all-male teams, the
exclusive language used, the assumptions and the stereotypes perpetuated. I
wish I could go back to the early days, when I first joined a church, when everything
was black and white, and there were always answers, and the answers were always
acceptable.
Me: What is it about men that makes them leaders and
about women that makes them followers? Why did God set it up this way?
Them: God is God and He can do things that don’t make sense
sometimes just to prove that His ways are higher than our ways. I can’t think
of another example of this, but it totally applies to the men/women stuff,
okay?
Me: OKAY!
Faith was much easier back then.
It’s easy to sound cold in writing, but these thoughts
and questions I have about us breaking up aren’t simple or painless. You’re not
just an abstract idea that I could easily let go of – I’d be walking away from
people I enjoy hanging out with, a structure and doctrines that have become comfortable and
familiar. I’d have to look for a replacement you, which would inevitably make
me remember and miss all of the things that I love about you. Staying or leaving
will both involve heartache. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Just thought I should let you know.
Belle
