The Policy of Honesty

I am really cranky lately. I feel stymied and shut down and unsafe about sharing my opinion. I feel as though I've gone to the ends of the earth to a place filled with closed minded bigots who are not able to see not just the importance of the Supreme Court's upholding of marriage equality, but the joy inherent in the decision. I feel the need to be clear: this is how I feel, not necessarily the reality of my situation.

I moved to a new location almost exactly six months ago. I began serving in my new call about 5 1/2 months ago and have been, for the most part, received with enthusiasm and grace. Then, a month ago, I pushed the envelop in a Festival Worship. I was assured that these services, which only occur on the fifth Sunday of the month, were a forum for me to try new styles, to change things up, to be as creative as I want to be. So I did something a little different: instead of a traditional sermon, I performed a one-woman play about a woman with breast cancer and her struggles with the ramifications thereof. It was received resoundingly well. I got emails, cards, and texts of grateful support. I had people press their hands into mine and gravely thank me for telling their story. I had others share health struggles that they had up to that point withheld. AND I had one couple leave the church. To be fair, this wasn't the first thing I had done that they didn't like. The first thing was simply being female, and our relationship went downhill from there. 

The Festival service during which I play a cancer survivor wrestling with despair. (Photo courtesy of Walt Campbell.)

In addition to that, the week after they ostentatiously walked out of the Festival Service, the church held its 275th Anniversary celebration, during which many former pastors and/or their spouses, children, and grandchildren were invited to participate. Several came, and the day was glorious, with worship and feasting and fellowship and stories. However, the previous much-beloved pastor remains very connected with many of the congregants and received a standing ovation after singing a solo during the service. It felt to me like "too much, too soon" as though I had not had time enough to develop, much less solidify, my own relationships with people before they were undermined, however unintentionally, by my predecessor. 

Finally, to put the cherry on top, this blog, a blog in which I've been pretty transparent, was linked to the church's new website without my permission. I knew it was there and was slightly uncomfortable with it, but also believe in what I've written, so I was wrestling with that as well. Then I began to get feedback about it in the midst of my distress over the other two issues. Once again, most of the feedback was overwhelmingly positive, but there were a few who were not happy, and very outspokenly so.

It made me sad, angry, depressed. It made me realize that I'm grateful I'm not a celebrity or someone whose life is parsed regularly by people who don't know me. It made me understand how very thin-skinned I can be, for while I have some emotional baggage, I have been very privileged in many ways and really shouldn't get so upset about what other people think of me. It made me see how cowardly I am. I took the blog down from the church page and linked another much less controversial one to it. Even writing this one, I wonder if I'll have the courage to share it in any way that will assure it's read.

Last summer for my birthday, my daughter Grace and I went into NYC for the day. We parked in Times Square, walked to the Metropolitan Museum, then to a fancy French restaurant on the East Side for dinner, and then back to midtown to see a Broadway show. It was a wonderful day, but I had worn brand-new sandals for the outing. They had seemed incredibly comfortable in the shoe store, but by the end of the day, the bottoms of my feet were covered with blisters. I could barely walk. I went home, lanced them, squeezed out all the juice, slathered them with Neosporin, covered them with bandaids and socks and went to bed. 

Grace and I about to enjoy dessert on my birthday last year. You can thank me for choosing this one to share instead of one of the bottom of my feet. (Photo courtesy of me.)

The next day Grace asked me, "Do your feet still hurt?"

I replied, "Not when I'm standing still. Only when I walk."

"That's like Life!" she said. Yes, I think, yes it is. Everything is fine when I'm standing still. But when I move, when I'm forced to step out of my comfort zone, it's hard. 

So here I sit. Feeling afraid to be who I am, to share what I feel, to preach what I know to be true, especially concerning the momentous decisions handed down by SCOTUS this week, the aftermath of the Charleston shooting, and right that all people have, no matter their race, color, creed, gender, or sexual orientation, to be safe and to love and be loved. God, help me. Please.