Why I Said, "Yes," Instead of, "No," Against What I Wanted

I know I am bad about writing. More, I know I am bad about writing consistently. 

It has been almost three years since I wrote anything for this space. I wrote something for my other blog for the first time in equally as long only a month or two back. 

That space is for books, movies, and music, though. This space is for me. For my struggles. For my frustrations. For my heartbreak. For my joy. For who I am in this moment. 

Right now, I am devastated. There is this soul crushing, heart-wrenching, and anxiety-triggering grief that has sat beneath my exterior for the past five weeks. It showed its head for the first time last December, and then, 10 months later, roared front and center. 

The senior pastor of my church is resigning. He is a man I deeply respect, admire, and care about. I have only known him, his wife, kids, and fluffy human (dog, for you muggles) for 4 years, but they are one of the closest things I have to non-biological family here in Pittsburgh. 

My relationship with them, and with my church, was a large percentage of why I decided to remain in Pittsburgh when my family moved back out West, other than my job. 

He is one of the best men I have ever known, and currently know. I cannot say that about many people in my life, but I unreservedly say it about him. 

The conflict that has arisen at my church and the inherent problems that could not be reconciled are why I find myself with this rolling turmoil for the past five and a half weeks. It is always sitting beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to sneak through. I work a lot of hours between my two jobs, which helps me keep a lid on it, but some days the glass cracks and it feels like, if I hold my breath sometimes, I can regain control. 

You see, at the town-hall meeting my church had for people to come and voice their concerns, experiences, and negative interactions with my pastor last month, I was one of only a couple people to stand up and speak on his behalf. I am not saying this makes me a good person, because I am, in fact, not that good a person. I simply reached a point, in the midst of that two hour character assassination, where something inside me snapped.

I had to stand up and hold a microphone and tell people I have known for 12 years, pillar members of my church's congregation, and representatives from the local governing body over our church, that the man that was being described by all of these people was not a man that I knew. I wanted them to be careful, and make sure that if they were going to give weight to the dissenting voices, they also give equal weight to those of us that have been insurmountably blessed by my pastor's ministry and our relationship with him and his family.

Maybe it is because I am only 26. Maybe it is because dissenting voices are louder. I heard nothing from my church leadership. I received minimal response from the Session members when I sent a letter last December, and I received no follow-up (except from the associate pastor) in September. While the dissenting voices may feel like the Session, deacons and elders are on their side and taking their matters seriously, I feel like they have brushed me aside. I feel like they have conveyed that everyone else and their experiences are more valid than my own. 

Since mid-September last month, I have been able to perform a magic trick. I should be cast in a Harry Potter movie. Is Fantastic Beasts looking for a walk-on/walk-off role, or a body double? I would be perfectly suited for it, because apparently, I am invisible. It is a newer quality of mine that I have only discovered in the past five weeks, so I am not convinced I can put it on my CV yet. However, for an hour and a half, each Sunday morning since that moment I was handed a microphone and stood against a current, no one at my church, outside of the same 5 people, have talked to me. 

This church I have called my home for the past 12 and a half years has become an incredibly lonely place. I can move through the post-service crowd with hardly anyone stopping me. What used to be a time when I could hang back and talk to different people for 30 minutes or an hour, has become a sea of people moving around and past me. 

This past Sunday, I attended church with friends I had not seen in a shamefully long time. I was greeted and welcomed warmly by people I had never met, and passed around on introduction after introduction. I felt like people were curious about my life and what I did or if I needed any help getting connected. It was nice to feel welcome. It was better to feel wanted. 

Sunday night my church had a congregational meeting where we were to vote on ballot to accept or reject our pastor's resignation, and have our delegates recommend the same to our presbytery. This is what I mean when I say, I checked, "Yes," when all I wanted was to check, "No." 

I love my pastor, and I love everything he was trying to accomplish at my church. However, my church is insular and not outward facing, and while I am disappointed, I am not surprised either. They never have been in the 12 years I have been attending, and maybe it was too much to ask of them. I prayed and hoped that someone as passionate as my pastor was and is about discipleship, the goals and vision for what we could be would be as infectious to others, as it was to myself and my friends. 

So, on Sunday night, I checked, yes, to accept my pastor's resignation and recommend that the church leadership recommend that our presbytery do the same. I checked, yes, and it felt like admitting defeat in a battle I did not want to lose. 

But, I checked, yes, because I love my pastor. I love his wife and his sons, and their very big, fluffy dog. I love them too much to make them endure the crippling fight they have experienced with my church that only seemed to be boiling over this year. 

I checked, yes, because I want him to be free to do what he came to do: discipleship. 

I checked, yes, because I believe it is what he is called to do and that others will benefit immeasurably from his work and experiences. 

I checked, yes, because he deserves people that will receive that training and work with him to further that common mission. Those kinds of relationships have the power to change someone's life. 

I checked, yes, because my church no longer deserves him as our pastor. 

I checked, yes, because my church decided that it did not want to put in the work he asked for our well-being. Rumors were allowed to spread without control, and instead of standing in unity with my pastor, elders and deacons stood in opposition to him. 

I checked, yes, because I watched a group of people I have known from almost half my life deny forgiveness and reconciliation to a man that has sought those very things from them, by going outside of himself and attempting to change himself for them...to fit their idea of what a pastor should be. 

I checked, yes, because I watched my church deny love and grace to a man that has loved them, in an imperfect way, but still loved them the best he could as a fallen human, the same as we all are. 

I checked, yes, because I watched people in my church declare that growth, forgiveness, and repentance have an expiration date and are finite, as opposed to infinite and requiring faith. 

I checked, yes, because it would have been selfish to say, no. It would have been selfish to want to keep him, when there were strong forces opposing it. It would have been cruel to put his family through that, especially with congregants that were trying to pressure the leadership for the exact thing my pastor voluntarily decided. 

I checked, yes, not because people in my church wanted my pastor's resignation. I checked, yes, because it was a decision he came to himself. I checked, yes, to set him free. 

I checked, yes, and it caused me immense pain. We folded our ballots and handed them to the deacons and elders. I turned around and one of my best friends had tears in her eyes. I held her hand and she squeezed mine back. I had to look at her, and tell her it was going to be okay and that this was the best decision. It did not feel right, and everything about where we found ourselves was wrong, but it was where we were. And we sat there in silence, together, a group of friends torn over the decision we had been forced to make, knowing that we were losing maybe more than anyone else. I held my friend's hand and she held mine in one and her husband's in the other, as we waited for the ballots to be counted with the results we knew were coming. 

I checked, yes, and I understand the cost. I understood the cost when I wrote the letter last December in support of my pastor, his family, and their ministry. I understood the cost when I raised my hand for a microphone in September. I understood the cost when I folded my ballot on Sunday. 

I understand the cost by writing these words. I understand the cost of sharing these words. I understand what it means, and that there may be no going back, and that I may irreparably ruin relationships with a church family I have loved for almost half my life. 

I understood the cost of speaking up, and I did it anyway. I would do it again, because what happened was wrong. What happened was the anti-thesis of everything I believe about forgiveness, empathy, and love for a fellow human-being. What happened appears to be a pattern my church is familiar with falling into, and I am beginning to wonder why that is. 

What happens now, then? What happens to those of us that are left behind in the wake of our pastor's departure, with his ministry initiatives cancelled effective immediately, and us given no alternative place to find support or attend a small group Bible study? What happens to those of us that stood against the current? What options have been afforded to us that have been generously extended to those on the other side of the line? 

My pastor's family has cared for, taught, mentored, and loved me far beyond my own deserving. So, I checked, yes, because I was given a choice, and I chose to stand with my pastor and his family. 

I understood the cost. I still understand the cost. What happened, though, is wrong. 

I write these words, because it is where I am right now. In this moment.
And, despite how I have been made to feel on Sunday mornings, I am not invisible.