Just Dead Wood

One last thing before I disappear into Christmas:

One of the ministers (from my childhood denomination, several of whom are secretly cheering me on) told me the other day that they were taught in theological school that when people like me resign, it is like the removal of dead wood from the tree.
My "death" in the church isn't a loss or a tragedy, it is a removal of dead wood.

How lovely.
That explains a great deal.

I know many women who are groaning in pain with the injustices and invisibility and dismissal, no longer content with the scraps under the table, and nobody seems to care! Nobody is listening in any way more than the politically correct, "It is good that you communicate," (barf) way. Not the leaders, anyway. The more fringe ministers have enough safety to support, if not too publicly, the dead and dying. But the closer to central leadership they are the less open and warm the men seem to be.
So when one girl friend finally resigned after years of struggle and trying to make it work, she got the equivalent of, "That's nice. Bye." From the pastor in her congregation.

No regrets. No good wishes. No ongoing support in her ongoing spiritual life. Nothing.
She died!
Hello?!
By that, I mean, this is like a death to her! Believe me, I know! The amount of investment and attachment some of us were raised to have borders on the cultic. It is ENORMOUS to step away. It is terrifying and lonely and very very hard. Extremely painful.

Then, some people treat you like you have leprosy, because they can't imagine why you would go where you have gone. And you don't want to tell them, because it's ugly and makes people they trust look bad, and no matter how lonely you are, you don't want other people to go through the same horrible pain.

But meanwhile, there you are, dead. And people are just stepping over your body and getting on with life and there's no outcry, no mourning the loss, no recognition of the dead having had any worth.
Dying is the fault of the one who died, I guess. Mourning would mean somebody did something wrong besides the corpse. If we don't notice, nothing is wrong. It couldn't possibly be like canaries in the mine. It couldn't possibly be a sign that there is disease in the system!

OUCH!

And here, I thought the church cared about her. Nope, if the work-horse stumbles, let it starve and die. We don't have time for the lame or stumbling. If shaming them into looking happy doesn't work, leave them behind. Don't waste food on the invalid.

Invalid. In-valid. No longer valid. No truth. Silenced. Dismissed. Feelings are invalidated. If my complaints aren't sanitized and polite enough, they are made wrong. If I make people uncomfortable, the faster I disappear, the better. It all makes sense now. I couldn't understand the complete non-reaction to the many complaints and increasing resignations.
A whole new meaning to "The religion that makes sense."

I just read a paper by a woman in the MARS program (masters in religious studies) attached to the all-male theological school of my childhood denomination. (The word is that the women aren't even allowed to take courses with the men. It's all separate. I guess the female thinking might contaminate the lofty "masculine wisdom." Someone correct me if I'm wrong.) Women get a pat on the head and a piece of paper saying they studied. But even what they have studied is not equivalent to what the men get.
I think I'm glad. I don't like the way the men are thinking who come out of there.
We would need a completely new curriculum designed by women.

Anyway, her paper is about trying to let women be ministers.
It just struck me as an attempt to sell pork to Hasidic Jews. Far more worthy a goal, actually, and about as viable. It's like trying to use only the teachings of Paul to convince men that women are on a level in every way with them. It's slaves asking for freedom, when the economy depends on them staying slaves.

My forehead is still scarred from banging against that wall.
Maybe somebody some day will get enough enlightenment, and have anough power to turn the Titanic around. Meanwhile, I'm far away, doing just fine in my life boat. And I'm moving steadily on. Up ahead are several big ships that turned around ages ago. . . . People on board are smiling and waving and reaching out hands in greeting, ready to help me climb aboard.