I’m not the first woman nor the last who has such a story of body handling and dissociation, holding it quiet for years. No spaces or shapes of community life had been available to me to become conscious that such an event mattered enough to merit anger aloud. I hear worse stories every time deeply reflective women gather together, conscious about their own well-being in the world. These stories need telling, for however long women and men need to awaken to the fact that they matter. But for five years, my husband and I, my immediate family, my church community absented ourselves from the knowledge that I and my experience as a woman could matter more than keeping the peace with a pound-cake perpetrator of old-boy civic religion.
Two marriages received scars here while home stretched painfully across church and work. For mine, my husband was secretly outraged, holding the toxicity deep within himself without my knowledge for nearly four years. As pastors, we both felt he was disempowered to respond without destabilizing his new role in ministry, which neither of us desired. We therefore both abandoned our experiences. While my Buddhist practice deepened and I served various congregations in adult education and pulpit supply, “church” became an empty space of formality and civic rite for me, weighted to irrelevance in its need for palatable public truth. Simultaneously, a spiritual friendship began in my life, moving my life into congregational exile, with salve beyond ecclesial norms. Companionships outside the structures of church began to hold the healing in a way the ecclesial structures were unable. Strangely liberated, then, I did become free to move outward—even as far as the Tibetan center—to find new sacred relationships outside of all my own traditioned shapes of community.
After those five years, as I found my way into circle-way communities of practice, as I was held by spiritual friends deeply rooted in their own wisdom traditions, way did open to tell gently the truth of my experience. The Wednesday of Holy Week, my husband-the-pastor and I visited “Jim” and his wife, in their living room. I brought a box of poundcake with the request that he receive it from me, that they listen while I told the story that had instigated a painful but now beautiful exile from congregational settings. I think each of us in the room, except Jim perhaps, finally saw the collision of small-town culture, urban professionalism in a woman, and unfortunate happenstance. He denied it. His wife cried. The pastor prayed for healing afterwards, and Easter Sunday beckoned to us all. As was my habit on those “nonnegotiable Sundays” I had to be there, I arrived late. This time, I noticed an open seat right next to Jim and his wife. I smiled, feeling tender but also open. I sat down next to them, and when it was time for communion, we walked up to the sacrament together, the frail and reconciled human beings that we were. Jim and his wife then became two of my favorite people in the church, as the theological reality about which I teach and in which I serve had been lived and shared by the four of us.
So, far from just the familiar story of a woman wounded by an unthinking man in a religious tradition, this event became seed of my own exile, an awakening to an undesired but unavoidable invitation outward into other communities, other practices. I found myself on a deepening path of darkness and light within which the Sacred could arise anew between those willing to journey together beyond familiar shapes of home, work, and church/tradition. New friends pushed me into a holy meander . . . into Tibetan Buddhist practices, Jewish hospitality and observance, Muslim salat, coffee cups with atheists, practices with earth-centered and woman-centric communities. We journey-folks are many now, immersed in companionable practices and circle learnings, finding one another along the way, learning together how to hold the “too muchness” of injuries of tribalism with compassion, integrity, and humility. This splinter of the flesh, goading me outward, slowly became a story of commitment to the way and shape that can hold dark and light long enough for a journey of healing, abundance, and reconciliation to be borne: a circle.
Pain hurts, but it need not become (or remain) suffering. Salve comes when you seek it, whether you’re aware of seeking or not. Rooted within my own tradition, I’d even say salvation comes as suffering softens the heart, opens it for healing, and, when way opens, wholeness is found. There is no excuse for the behavior named in this church coffee hour, man to woman, but there is (now) seasoned empathy and self-compassion, which extends then to compassion for Jim too. We are sparks of the divine and shells of fearful division. Separate from one another, we injure one another, sometimes with intention, often without. Opened to wisdom, stumbling toward interdependence, we glimpse a better way. The pain of this event pushed me into exile. Deep inner work and gracious companionship from outside allowed me freedom to see, to be seen, to tell the truth, and to forgive. Grounding in exile.
How might your life have been different . . .
if your place in the world felt safe, regardless of who you are,
you knew you belonged, assured, just as you are . . .
if public and private truths stood next to one another,
honoring the gifts of each?
if injury did not hide in shame but was offered
for the purification and transfiguration of each,
if and when the injured were willing?
if the sacred did not shield us from the fears of men
nor hide the dignity and wisdom of women,
hidden deeply within the unconscious, unwelcome and denied
until safe space is held to bring this wordlessness to voice?
How might your life have been different?
How might our world be different?
Desire
“We’re never going to use this,” responded a student to the end-of-semester discussion in my interreligious-intercultural methods class, a master’s course crafted to shape peaceable and impassioned faith encounters in the ministries of fledgling religious leaders. “We don’t even have a Catholic church in town, let alone a synagogue, mosque, or temple. We’re never going to use this.” I was stunned, and not a little stung. How could that possibly be true? How could he not see the value in learning how to learn about one another across difference, learning to actively love one another across culture and tradition? Does he not live in the same world that the rest of us do? Does he not encounter political refugees and immigrants around every grocery store aisle?
Blunt honesty stings, which is why so few of us offer it to one another. When received with curiosity and an ability to hold negative energies, his words eventually showed me what I had refused to see. Because he was absolutely right. He and his words reminded me of a portion of the American population increasingly misunderstood or misperceived within discourse and media attentive to other concerns. He spoke as a leader in a community disenchanted with industrial agriculture, technological overwhelm, and globalization. He spoke as one whose lived reality is one of more oral communication than literate—which is not to say an illiterate community, just one less inclined to receive information or news from print media. He spoke of a large population often defensive against or “unplugged” from what appears to some of us as an unavoidable global village. Just because religious pluralism and cultural diversity are touted both directly and indirectly from ivory tower and multimedia outlets does not mean that this diversity informs everyone’s daily lives. One (or many) can choose to craft a reality that diminishes pluralisms, avoids diversity, regulates the most important fundamentals. Diversity’s prevalence does not mean that all of us have to confront it regularly. Yet.
Moving the Discourse Inward
As