Open door
123rf.com Image
I was sitting at a table on the first floor of the library at Hardin-Simmons University when a fellow classmate from Logsdon School of Theology approached me with a smile. He sat down across from me and slid the rough draft of his paper over for me to review. I worked in the Writing Center and regularly tutored students who needed help with theology papers.
I offered a few suggestions on the organization of his argument; then, because we were friends, we sat a while longer and discussed the topic he had written about. It was a fun and engaging conversation, but after a few minutes his demeanor changed.
He reached for his paper I had edited, and once it was back in his hands, he looked at me and said: “I think you’re really smart, but I do not believe God calls women to ministry. What you’re doing is selfish and dishonorable to your future husband. I am telling you this because I am your friend, and I hope you will repent and change your ways.”
He got up and left. His words did not shock me — I knew he’d bring this up sooner or later just as others already had. I tried to brush it off, but I went home and cried.
The next week he came back and asked if he could borrow my notes to study for an upcoming exam.
These discriminatory comments from classmates, especially from those who depended on me for academic support, sent me spiraling. Thankfully, the faculty at Logsdon were nothing but affirming and supportive. For every arrogant student who diminished my calling, there was another who valued my gifts and perspectives. Even so, I constantly felt pressured to prove myself, and much of my work was motivated by spite.
“For every arrogant student who diminished my calling, there was another who valued my gifts and perspectives.”
Such encounters reminded me of why I had left the church of my upbringing and joined a tradition that would welcome and celebrate my gifts. I could not wait for what my future held as a woman pursuing ordination in the United Methodist Church. I counted down the days until I could move to Boston for seminary, where my status as a woman pursuing vocational ministry would be embraced rather than treated with suspicion.
I wanted to grab hold of all my female classmates and drag them away with me. However, for many, the Baptist church is their home, and they feel called to stay within their chosen tradition. It took me awhile to accept and respect their decision.
These women are not weak or passive. While there are those who still adhere to traditional gender roles or are hesitant to identify as feminists, many are inspiring change from within in creative and meaningful ways.
I applaud these women for their willingness to stay and do difficult work in their communities, especially when they might be granted more opportunities for leadership elsewhere. When I left, they sent me forth with blessings. Not long after, I understood their grace and determination more fully.
My honeymoon phase with the UMC was short-lived. I quickly discovered that while the UMC was a source of hope and healing for me, for others it was a source of hurt and heartbreak.
Most of the Methodist communities I had been a part of were open and affirming of the LGBTQ community, so I was shocked and disheartened when I realized the extent of division and the inevitability of a denominational split. The difficult truth sank in: I may be allowed behind the pulpit, but many of my friends in the LGBTQ community, as things stand now, are not.
“The difficult truth sank in: I may be allowed behind the pulpit, but many of my friends in the LGBTQ community, as things stand now, are not.”
I regularly question if I am making the right decision in remaining Methodist. How can I, in good conscience, pursue ordination within a tradition that denies the sacred worth and rejects the gifts of my queer friends, especially when I know exactly how that denial and rejection feels? I’ve encountered leaders in the UMC who are just as cruel as those I knew in my previous contexts.
Have I merely traded one toxic tradition for another?
Plans for separation over the topic of LGBTQ inclusion have been long and arduous. I do not fault my friends who have left. I encourage and respect their boundaries, and I send them forth with blessings, just as my Baptist friends once did for me. Now, I feel called to stay and struggle onward for change.
We are all just doing our best, I realized. Well, some of us are just chasing power, but most of us, most of the time, are just doing our best.
Before graduating college, I was asked to give a brief speech at a luncheon celebration. In that speech, I reflected on my undergraduate experience and remarked that I felt a comradery with my classmates, even those whose insensitive comments, on some occasions, had me holding back tears in the classroom.
“If anyone were to challenge their worth and calling,” I said, “I would probably find myself defending them, not because they deserve it, but because I’ve learned that my love for the church depends upon the love and good will I have toward the people who will serve the church.”
Those words were not easy to deliver, but I meant them.
Whether I like it or not, those former classmates of mine are now leaders in faith communities. For the sake of those they serve, and for the sake of Christ’s witness in the world, I can only hope that they lead with more love and kindness than they afforded to me.
I am not certain if my former classmates ever think about me — but I still think about them. I remember the damaging effects their words had on my faith and psyche. More surprisingly, however, I think about them when I fulfill that commitment to uphold their own worth and calling when others diminish it.
In the more liberal and progressive spaces I belong to now, I often hear comments directed toward Southern evangelicals that are completely lacking in grace, knowledge and compassion. To some degree, this is understandable. It’s usually the extremists whose harm is most apparent and newsworthy. And, unfortunately, many people can point back to lived experiences in the church that are far more traumatizing than mine — they have every reason to believe and testify to the worst because they have seen the worst.
But in other cases, I am shocked by the harsh attitudes and tones people in my seminary cohort level against people they know little about, simply because they need somewhere to direct their judgment and anger.
“Wait,” I want to tell them, “Those are my family and friends you are attacking on social media. That’s the younger version of myself you are saying can ‘get lost’ and ‘go to hell.’”
“Wait,” I want to tell them, “Those are my family and friends you are attacking on social media. That’s the younger version of myself you are saying can ‘get lost’ and ‘go to hell.’”
Next spring, I will graduate with a master of divinity degree, and, for better or for worse, continue on in the ordination process in the United Methodist Church. My future seems bright.
Interestingly though, I feel the occasional homesickness for the very context I once sought liberation from. I miss those Baptists who gave me generous scholarships, who enveloped me in hugs, who fed me every Sunday evening, and who reminded me that I was in their prayers. Theirs are the faces I see when well-meaning friends of mine fail to put in any effort at loving or understanding them.
I wish these friends could go back in time and take my seat in the library. I know if they had been at my side they would have raised heaven and hell on my behalf. But I hope they could realize that before that student looked me in the eyes and blatantly discredited God’s call on my life, he was just a 20-year-old kid like me trying to figure out what he believed about God.
Misguided as he was to say those things to me, I am sure he was coached to do so by the pastors in his church. And why did he listen to them? Because they offered him a place to belong. Looking into my eyes, he might have appreciated my tutoring and friendship, but ultimately, he chose to apply the belief system he had been taught not to question. Making an exception on my behalf would have compromised his privilege and identity, which at that point, he was still too insecure to acknowledge and interrogate.
But I read the words in his paper. I witnessed him wrestling with his faith. I believe the Holy Spirit rests on him still.
I wonder how many variations of the story of the Prodigal Son we tend to embody throughout our lives and faith journeys. I wonder if there’s a church in which people like us ever return and admit the ways we’ve both got it wrong, and I wonder if there is a loving God who will mediate our reunion.
Some of us leave home for selfish intentions and return repentant, whereas some of us leave for valid reasons and return with newfound wisdom. Some of us stay home because we fear change, and we do not wish to welcome those who might compromise what we have worked to build, whereas others stay to repair the damage done in hopes that those who initially fled the dangerous scene might have a safer space to return to, should they wish.
Some goodbyes feel like freedom and others feel like loss. Some homecomings entail reconciliation and others do nothing but open up old wounds. Sometimes we break the hearts of those we love, and sometimes we love those who broke our hearts.
I am not sure if time or circumstances will ever bring me back into contact with that classmate from the library. Even if we were to meet, he might, for all I know, stand by what he said and say it all again. But I am not completely devoid of hope. He did, after all, return the next week and continue to exploit my work and generosity by asking for my notes.
Well, I’ll be returning to Texas next year, and trust me, I have plenty of notes to share.
Madison Boboltz
Madison Boboltz
Madison Boboltz graduated from Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene, Texas, in December 2019. There, she studied religion at Logsdon School of Theology. Currently, Madison is attending seminary at Boston University’s School of Theology and is a certified candidate for ordained ministry in the United Methodist Church. She plans to return to central Texas for ordination and begin her career as a pastor.