Pausing my part in the series to hear voices inside and outside the Church. I am grateful for these women sharing vulnerably about their experience with the patriarchy. 

“Expect less than you might think in one year but more than you might think in five years,” my seminary professor told me. He had decades of experience in college ministry, and I had asked his advice on starting a new on-campus fellowship at my alma mater.

I was in my mid-twenties, working full-time leading the college ministry at the complementarian church I had been a part of since age eighteen. Midway through my first year on the job, I felt that the right next step was to start a new on-campus fellowship—a venture not for the faint of heart.

I loved the students I got to know, and it was an amazing thing to be able to create a unique space of connection and spiritual growth. But I also saw that what my professor had said was true. I, along with the small team of student leaders I gathered, could build something if we kept working hard on it—but it would take time. So much time.

And in addition to time, it would take support. So much support. I can see this clearly in hindsight.

When I suggested the idea of starting a campus fellowship to our (all-male) elder board, the board was supportive—in the sense of saying, “sounds great—go for it.” They didn’t try to keep me from it. But I also don’t recall them asking: “What do you need? What can we do, and what can our church community do to support you?” I don’t recall them checking in about how things were going and what I needed in order to lead the fledgling group in a healthy and sustainable way.

At the time, I was so busy meeting with students, leading Bible studies, and planning events that I didn’t really think about these things. It was only several years later that I was struck by the reality of how little support I really had.

By this time, I had become an elder at a different church, and part of my role was to support the youth ministry director, let’s call him Chris. Chris would say totally reasonable things, like, “I’m feeling discouraged about xyz aspect of youth ministry right now.” Or, “I’m really looking forward to this vacation I’m taking—I really need it.” Or “I would like to hire a part-time person to do this work with me.”

I appreciated his honesty. But I also found myself surprised by the feelings of resentment that sometimes popped up unbidden. I’m glad Chris felt free to name what he needed and ask for it. But part of me felt conflicted.

 

Brené Brown’s words in Atlas of the Heart helped me understand where my resentment was coming from. Brown suggests that when we experience resentment, it can be an invitation to reflect on our needs. “Now when I start to feel resentful,” Brown writes, “instead of thinking, What is that person doing wrong? or What should they be doing? I think, What do I need but am afraid to ask for?”^[1]

My resentment wasn’t at all about Chris; it was about me. It was about the things I needed when I was in a similar position—the things I needed but did not ask for.

As a young woman in leadership in an explicitly patriarchal church, I felt a strong and constant urge to avoid making waves, to try not to be perceived as too difficult or needy. I didn’t know how to ask for what I needed—but that wasn’t the only problem. I also needed a community that could receive this asking well.

Professor of Women’s and Gender Studies and Africana Studies Brittney Cooper writes from her perspective as a Black woman: “Just learn to love yourself, we are told. But patriarchy is nothing if not the structurally induced hatred of women. If every woman and girl learned to love herself fiercely, the patriarchy would still be intact; it would demand that she be killed for having the audacity to think she was somebody.”^[2]

My church was full of nice people. No one was going to demand my death. At the same time, though, if I had asked for what I needed, I’m not sure how the church leaders would have responded. I doubt the elder board would have been willing to cough up the money for another part-time staff, for example.

When I asked once if I could attend weekly pastoral staff meetings so that I could get a better sense of what was going on in the church as a whole—and connect more closely with my colleagues who were doing work very similar to my own even though they had the title of “pastor” and I did not—I was turned down. I felt frustrated but did not push the issue.

I fully believe in the oft-quoted proverb:^[3] “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I wanted to go far—that is, I wanted the on-campus group and the students involved in it to flourish. I wanted to build a life-giving community over time. I wanted to go far, but sometimes it felt like there was no one to go with me.

Looking back, I can see that I needed to be willing to brave my fears—my very legitimate fears—of being labeled with all the nasty, gendered stereotypes women are labeled with when we speak up about what we need. And I also needed a community that would support me and not label me with these names.

When we ask for what we need, it might not end well. But the only way we’ll know—the only way we’ll know whether our communities are willing to support us as women, humans, and ministers—is to ask. And if full support is not to be found, to be willing to leave. I am no longer interested in settling for anything less.

You can read more from Liz here

You can read about Liz here 

 

^[1] Brown Brené. Atlas of the Heart: Mapping Meaningful Connection and the Language of the Human Experience (Random House, 2021), 31.

^[2] Cooper, Brittney. Eloquent Rage: A Black Feminist Discovers Her Superpower (St. Martin’s Press, 2018), 91.

^[3] Of murky origins—likely from a people group in Africa, but it’s unclear which one.