I squinted, looking up in response to the question.

“You’re leaving us?” Jerry* asked.

All the pain surfaced for the 100th time that day. Being asked this question as I walked into the place where my “send-off” was about to be celebrated only made the pain more intense.

“This is an honor – a time of recognizing all you’ve done for us,” an elder said to me just two weeks before.

This send-off party was not one I wanted, and the reason for my refusal was plain in my soul, but not to others. “It’s an honor!” He insisted. But this honor was no honor if forced upon me. This leaving was not a choice. I wasn’t being fired, but they could not afford to keep me because of one decision they made. One decision that chose something else that would ultimately not just harm me, but the future of that church. In the months leading up to their decision to eliminate the position, dozens of families left the church over it. I was left with a skeleton volunteer team.

“I’m not leaving the church.
The church left me.”

Before I could stop myself, I answered, “No, Jerry, I’m not leaving the church. The church left me.”

His face was one of confusion… understandably so, as the announcement of my exit was made only in writing to official members of the church, only 40% of whom attended a worship service. So he knew nothing other than I was leaving and that there was a party that was talked about that day in the worship service. A “party” to him, but not to me. A party to “celebrate” my leaving.

I learned how to stand up for myself.

I learned something about myself in the month after being told my position was no longer financially viable. I learned how to stand up for myself. After being told a church of 900 attendees could no longer afford a Director of Family Ministries, the same elder who tried to tell me this party was an honor, walked into my office a week later to “see how I was doing.” I refused to placate him.

“I’m sad,” I said. “And terrified. I’m single – there is no other income available to protect or help me. I moved here from thousands of miles away. I have no family here. And you are not giving me enough time to find another job. It takes months to transition in a church, especially if out of state.”

As he sat there dumbfounded, I realized why he was there. His face said it all – there was no empathy or concern. Just confusion.

So I continued. “You aren’t here to check in on me. You are here to make yourself feel better. And it’s not my job to make you feel better about what you’ve done.”

“You aren’t here to check in on me. You are here to make yourself feel better. And it’s not my job to make you feel better about what you’ve done.”

That elder left my office because he had no response. Maybe he did think he was there to check on me. Maybe he truly did care about how I was doing. But body language told a different story, and when I named the reality of the situation, he knew I was right. He knew he wanted to feel better about the decision he played a key role in making. He also wanted me to make him feel better by telling him I was doing okay.

If you are a woman in evangelical spaces, you know how we are trained to make everyone – male or female – feel comfortable. There are certainly places and times for that. But I realized, when thrust into this situation, that I should not feel obligated to make someone comfortable by glossing over the truth of how I was experiencing it. Even if the decision made was the best and right one for the church, that didn’t mean it didn’t have an adverse effect on me. And I shouldn’t be expected to ignore that. But that was, indeed, what they wanted.

I look back on that exchange – and it’s one I don’t think about very often – and I see the importance of what it did for my future self. I didn’t shrink. I told the truth, and it mattered. I don’t know if there was a takeaway for him, but there was for me.

I didn’t shrink.
I told the truth, and it mattered.

This happened over a decade ago, and since then, I have found a denomination that fits; I was ordained in that denomination and became what I never thought I would become: a lead pastor. Their decision back then affected the trajectory of my life, and perhaps they would look at what I’ve become and say, “Look! See? It was all for her good.”

While I am more than willing to acknowledge that God used the evil done to me and used it for his glory, that doesn’t excuse how I was treated in the process. The job being eliminated was one thing, but all the decisions about how they would tell the church, what they would tell them, and how leadership treated me during that time made it far worse. (I didn’t mention that they made me wait two weeks to tell anyone because they didn’t want to “ruin” Easter, nor an upcoming celebration for the Senior Pastor.)

Yes, I have been hurt by the Church. But I have never been hurt by Jesus. That church left me, but Jesus never did. I am grateful for the truth of the Gospel.

I am also committed to the Church doing much better for the people in its care. You learn who really cares about you as a human, not just an employee, during times like these. They are hard lessons to learn, and they create an ache that doesn’t go away quickly. It forever alters how you see the Church as a system and not the body of Christ.

As we grow further and further apart as a culture, I fear it will continue to get worse. (And remember, this story was 10 years ago.) It is my prayer that I will continue to be a truth teller, to stand up for those who need an extra voice to give them strength, and that the body of Christ will become a source of healing and not harm.

*Name changed

Feature Photo by Quilia on Unsplash